THE KING OF TORTS.

by JOHN GRISHAM.

1

THE SHOTS THAT FIRED the bullets that entered Pumpkin's head were heard by no less than eight people. Three instinctively closed their windows, checked their door locks, and withdrew to the safety, or at least the seclusion, of their small apartments. Two others, each with experience in such matters, ran from the vicinity as fast if not faster than the gunman himself. Another, the neighborhood recycling fanatic, was digging through some garbage in search of aluminum cans when he heard the sharp sounds of the daily skirmish, very nearby. He jumped behind a pile of cardboard boxes until the sh.e.l.ling stopped, then eased into the alley where he saw what was left of Pumpkin.And two saw almost everything. They were sitting on plastic milk crates, at the corner of Georgia and Lamont in front of a liquor store, partially hidden by a parked car so that the gunman, who glanced around briefly before following Pumpkin into the alley, didn't see them. Both would tell the police that they saw the boy with the gun reach into his pocket and pull it out; they saw the gun for sure, a small black pistol. A second later they heard the shots, though they did not actually see Pumpkin take them in the head. Another second and the boy with the gun darted from the alley and, for some reason, ran straight in their direction. He ran bent at the waist, like a scared dog, guilty as h.e.l.l. He wore red-and-yellow basketball shoes that seemed five sizes too big and slapped the pavement as he made his getaway.When he ran by them he was still holding the gun, probably a .38, and he flinched just for an instant when he saw them and realized they had seen too much. For one terrifying second, he seemed to raise the gun as if to eliminate the witnesses, both of whom managed to flip backward from their plastic milk crates and scramble off in a mad flurry of arms and legs. Then he was gone.One of them opened the door to the liquor store and yelled for someone to call the police, there had been a shooting.Thirty minutes later, the police received a call that a young man matching the description of the one who had wasted Pumpkin had been seen twice on Ninth Street carrying a gun in open view and acting stranger than most of the people on Ninth. He had tried to lure at least one person into an abandoned lot, but the intended victim had escaped and reported the incident.The police found their man an hour later. His name was Tequila Watson, black male, age twenty, with the usual drug-related police record. No family to speak of. No address. The last place he'd been sleeping was a rehab unit on W Street. He'd managed to ditch the gun somewhere, and if he'd robbed Pumpkin then he'd also thrown away the cash or drugs or whatever the booty was. His pockets were clean, as were his eyes. The cops were certain Tequila was not under the influence of anything when he was arrested. A quick and rough interrogation took place on the street, then he was handcuffed and shoved into the rear seat of a D.C. police car.They drove him back to Lamont Street, where they arranged an impromptu encounter with the two witnesses. Tequila was led into the alley where he'd left Pumpkin. "Ever been here before?" a cop asked.Tequila said nothing, just gawked at the puddle of fresh blood on the dirty concrete. The two witnesses were eased into the alley, then led quietly to a spot near Tequila."That's him," both said at the same time."He's wearing the same clothes, same basketball shoes, everything but the gun.""That's him.""No doubt about it."Tequila was shoved into the car once again and taken to jail. He was booked for murder and locked away with no immediate chance of bail. Whether through experience or just fear, Tequila never said a word to the cops as they pried and cajoled and even threatened. Nothing incriminating, nothing helpful. No indication of why he would murder Pumpkin. No clue as to their history, if one existed at all. A veteran detective made a brief note in the file that the killing appeared a bit more random than was customary.No phone call was requested. No mention of a lawyer or a bail bondsman. Tequila seemed dazed but content to sit in a crowded cell and stare at the floor.PUMPKIN HAD NO TRACEABLE father but his mother worked as a security guard in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a large office building on New York Avenue. It took three hours for the police to determine her son's real name-Ramon Pumphrey-to locate his address, and to find a neighbor willing to tell them if he had a mother.Adelfa Pumphrey was sitting behind a desk just inside the bas.e.m.e.nt entrance, supposedly watching a bank of monitors. She was a large thick woman in a tight khaki uniform, a gun on her waist, a look of complete disinterest on her face. The cops who approached her had done so a hundred times. They broke the news, then found her supervisor.In a city where young people killed each other every day, the slaughter had thickened skins and hardened hearts, and every mother knew many others who'd lost their children. Each loss brought death a step closer, and every mother knew that any day could be the last. The mothers had watched the others survive the horror. As Adelfa Pumphrey sat at her desk with her face in her hands, she thought of her son and his lifeless body lying somewhere in the city at that moment, being inspected by strangers.She swore revenge on whoever killed him.She cursed his father for abandoning the child.She cried for her baby.And she knew she would survive. Somehow, she would survive.ADELFA WENT TO COURT to watch the arraignment. The police told her the punk who'd killed her son was scheduled to make his first appearance, a quick and routine matter in which he would plead not guilty and ask for a lawyer. She was in the back row with her brother on one side and a neighbor on the other, her eyes leaking tears into a damp handkerchief. She wanted to see the boy. She also wanted to ask him why, but she knew she would never get the chance.They herded the criminals through like cattle at an auction. All were black, all wore orange coveralls and handcuffs, all were young. Such waste.In addition to his handcuffs, Tequila was adorned with wrist and ankle chains since his crime was especially violent, though he looked fairly harmless when he was shuffled into the courtroom with the next wave of offenders. He glanced around quickly at the crowd to see if he recognized anyone, to see if just maybe someone was out there for him. He was seated in a row of chairs, and for good measure one of the armed bailiffs leaned down and said, "That boy you killed. That's his mother back there in the blue dress."With his head low, Tequila slowly turned and looked directly into the wet and puffy eyes of Pumpkin's mother, but only for a second. Adelfa stared at the skinny boy in the oversized coveralls and wondered where his mother was and how she'd raised him and if he had a father, and, most important, how and why his path had crossed that of her boy's. The two were about the same age as the rest of them, late teens or early twenties. The cops had told her that it appeared, at least initially, that drugs were not involved in the killing. But she knew better. Drugs were involved in every layer of street life. Adelfa knew it all too well. Pumpkin had used pot and crack and he'd been arrested once, for simple possession, but he had never been violent. The cops were saying it looked like a random killing. All street killings were random, her brother had said, but they all had a reason.On one side of the courtroom was a table around which the authorities gathered. The cops whispered to the prosecutors, who flipped through files and reports and tried valiantly to keep the paperwork ahead of the criminals. On the other side was a table where the defense lawyers came and went as the a.s.sembly line sputtered along. Drug charges were rattled off by the Judge, an armed robbery, some vague s.e.xual attack, more drugs, lots of parole violations. When their names were called, the defendants were led forward to the bench, where they stood in silence. Paperwork was shuffled, then they were hauled off again, back to jail."Tequila Watson," a bailiff announced.He was helped to his feet by another bailiff. He stutter-stepped forward, chains rattling."Mr. Watson, you are charged with murder," the Judge announced loudly. "How old are you?""Twenty," Tequila said, looking down.The murder charge had echoed through the courtroom and brought a temporary stillness. The other criminals in orange looked on with admiration. The lawyers and cops were curious."Can you afford a lawyer?""No.""Didn't think so," the Judge mumbled and glanced at the defense table. The fertile fields of the D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division, Felony Branch, were worked on a daily basis by the Office of the Public Defender, the safety net for all indigent defendants. Seventy percent of the docket was handled by court-appointed counsel, and at any time there were usually half a dozen PDs milling around in cheap suits and battered loafers with files sticking out of their briefcases. At that precise moment, however, only one PD was present, the Honorable Clay Carter II, who had stopped by to check on two much lesser felonies, and now found himself all alone and wanting to bolt from the courtroom. He glanced to his right and to his left and realized that His Honor was looking at him. Where had all the other PDs gone?A week earlier, Mr. Carter had finished a murder case, one that had lasted for almost three years and had finally been closed with his client being sent away to a prison from which he would never leave, at least not officially. Clay Carter was quite happy his client was now locked up, and he was relieved that he, at that moment, had no murder files on his desk.That, evidently, was about to change."Mr. Carter?" the Judge said. It was not an order, but an invitation to step forward to do what every PD was expected to do-defend the indigent, regardless of the case. Mr. Carter could not show weakness, especially with the cops and prosecutors watching. He swallowed hard, refused to flinch, and walked to the bench as if he just might demand a jury trial right there and then. He took the file from the Judge, quickly skimmed its rather thin contents while ignoring the pleading look of Tequila Watson, then said, "We'll enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor.""Thank you, Mr. Carter. And we'll show you as counsel of record?""For now, yes." Mr. Carter was already plotting excuses to unload this case on someone else at OPD."Very well. Thank you," the Judge said, already reaching for the next file.Lawyer and client huddled at the defense table for a few minutes. Carter took as much information as Tequila was willing to give, which was very little. He promised to stop by the jail the next day for a longer interview. As they whispered, the table was suddenly crowded with young lawyers from the PD's office, colleagues of Carter's who seemed to materialize from nowhere.Was this a setup? Carter asked himself. Had they disappeared knowing a murder defendant was in the room? In the past five years, he'd pulled such stunts himself. Ducking the nasty ones was an art form at OPD.He grabbed his briefcase and hurried away, down the center aisle, past rows of worried relatives, past Adelfa Pumphrey and her little support group, into the hallway crammed with many more criminals and their mommas and girlfriends and lawyers. There were those in OPD who swore they lived for the chaos of the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse-the pressure of trials, the hint of danger from people sharing the same s.p.a.ce with so many violent men, the painful conflict between victims and their a.s.sailants, the hopelessly overcrowded dockets, the calling to protect the poor and ensure fair treatment by the cops and the system.If Clay Carter had ever been attracted to a career in OPD, he could not now remember why. In one week the fifth anniversary of his employment there would come and go, without celebration, and, hopefully, without anyone knowing it. Clay was burned out at the age of thirty-one, stuck in an office he was ashamed to show his friends, looking for an exit with no place to go, and now saddled with another senseless murder case that was growing heavier by the minute.In the elevator he cursed himself for getting nailed with a murder. It was a rookie's mistake; he'd been around much too long to step into the trap, especially one set on such familiar turf. I'm quitting, he promised himself; the same vow he had uttered almost every day for the past year.There were two others in the elevator. One was a court clerk of some variety, with her arms full of files. The other was a fortyish gentleman dressed in designer black-jeans, T-shirt, jacket, alligator boots. He held a newspaper and appeared to be reading it through small gla.s.ses perched on the tip of his rather long and elegant nose; in fact, he was studying Clay, who was oblivious. Why would someone pay any attention to anyone else on this elevator in this building?If Clay Carter had been alert instead of brooding, he would have noticed that the gentleman was too well dressed to be a defendant, but too casual to be a lawyer. He carried nothing but a newspaper, which was somewhat odd because the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse was not known as a place for reading. He did not appear to be a judge, a clerk, a victim, or a defendant, but Clay never noticed him.

2

IN A CITY of 76,000 lawyers, many of them cl.u.s.tered in megafirms within rifle shot of the U.S. Capitol-rich and powerful firms where the brightest a.s.sociates were given obscene signing bonuses and the dullest ex-Congressmen were given lucrative lobbying deals and the hottest litigators came with their own agents-the Office of the Public Defender was far down in the minor leagues. Low A.Some OPD lawyers were zealously committed to defending the poor and oppressed, and for them the job was not a stepping-stone to another career. Regardless of how little they earned or how tight their budgets were, they thrived on the lonely independence of their work and the satisfaction of protecting the underdog.Other PDs told themselves that the job was transitory, just the nitty-gritty training they needed to get launched into more promising careers. Learn the ropes the hard way, get your hands dirty, see and do things no big-firm a.s.sociate would ever get near, and someday some firm with real vision will reward the effort. Unlimited trial experience, a vast knowledge of the judges and the clerks and the cops, workload management, skills in handling the most difficult of clients-these were just a few of the advantages PDs had to offer after only a few years on the job.OPD had eighty lawyers, all working in two cramped and suffocating floors of the District of Columbia Public Services Building, a pale, square, concrete structure known as The Cube, on Ma.s.s Avenue near Thomas Circle. There were about forty low paid secretaries and three dozen paralegals scattered through the maze of cubbyhole offices. The Director was a woman named Glenda who spent most of her time locked in her office because she felt safe in there.The beginning salary for an OPD lawyer was $36,000. Raises were minuscule and slow in coming. The most senior lawyer, a frazzled old man of forty-three, earned $57,600 and had been threatening to quit for nineteen years. The workloads were staggering because the city was losing its own war on crime. The supply of indigent criminals was endless. Every year for the past eight Glenda had submitted a budget requesting ten more lawyers and a dozen more paralegals. In each of the last four budgets she had received less money than the year before. Her quandary at the moment was which paralegals to terminate and which lawyers to force into part-time work.Like most of the other PDs, Clay Carter had not entered law school with the plan of a career, or even a brief stint, defending indigent criminals. No way. Back when Clay was in college and then law school at Georgetown his father had a firm in D.C. Clay had worked there part-time for years, and had his own office. The dreams had been boundless back then, father and son litigating together as the money poured in.But the firm collapsed during Clay's last year of law school, and his father left town. That was another story. Clay became a public defender because there were no other last-second jobs to grab.It took him three years to jockey and connive his way into getting his own office, not one shared with another lawyer or paralegal. About the size of a modest suburban utility closet, it had no windows and a desk that consumed half the floor s.p.a.ce. His office in his father's old firm had been four times larger with views of the Washington Monument, and though he tried to forget those views he couldn't erase them from his memory. Five years later, he still sat at his desk at times and stared at the walls, which seemed to get closer each month, and asked himself how, exactly, did he fall from one office to the other?He tossed the Tequila Watson file on his very clean and very neat desk and took off his jacket. It would have been easy, in the midst of such dismal surroundings, to let the place go, to let the files and papers pile up, to clutter his office and blame it on being overworked and understaffed. But his father had believed that an organized desk was a sign of an organized mind. If you couldn't find something in thirty seconds, you were losing money, his father always said. Return phone calls immediately was another rule Clay had been taught to obey.So he was fastidious about his desk and office, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of his harried colleagues. His Georgetown Law School diploma hung in a handsome frame in the center of a wall. For the first two years at OPD he had refused to display the diploma for fear that the other lawyers would wonder why someone from Georgetown was working for minimum wages. For the experience, he told himself, I'm here for the experience. A trial every month-tough trials against tough prosecutors in front of tough juries. For the down-in-the-gutter, bareknuckle training that no big firm could provide. The money would come later, when he was a battle-hardened litigator at a very young age.He stared at the thin Watson file in the center of his desk and wondered how he might unload it on someone else. He was tired of the tough cases and the superb training and all the other c.r.a.p that he put up with as an underpaid PD.There were six pink phone message slips on his desk; five related to business, one from Rebecca, his longtime girlfriend. He called her first."I'm very busy," she informed him after the required initial pleasantries."You called me," Clay said."Yes, I can only talk a minute or so." Rebecca worked as an a.s.sistant to a low-ranking Congressman who was the chairman of some useless subcommittee. But because he was the chairman he had an additional office he was required to staff with people like Rebecca who was in a frenzy all day preparing for the next round of hearings that no one would attend. Her father had pulled strings to get her the job."I'm kinda swamped too," Clay said. "Just picked up another murder case." He managed to add a measure of pride to this, as if he were honored to be the attorney for Tequila Watson.It was a game they played: Who was the busiest? Who was the most important? Who worked the hardest? Who had the most pressure?"Tomorrow is my mother's birthday," she said, pausing slightly as if Clay was supposed to know this. He did not. He cared not. He didn't like her mother. "They've invited us to dinner at the club."A bad day just got worse. The only response he could possibly give was, "Sure." And a quick one at that."Around seven. Coat and tie.""Of course." I'd rather have dinner with Tequila Watson at the jail, he thought to himself."I gotta run," she said. "See you then. Love you.""Love you."It was a typical conversation between the two, just a few quick lines before rushing off to save the world. He looked at her photo on his desk. Their romance came with enough complications to sink ten marriages. His father had once sued her father, and who won and who lost would never be clear. Her family claimed origins in old Alexandria society; he'd been an Army brat. They were right-wing Republicans, he was not. Her father was known as Bennett the Bulldozer for his relentless slash-and-burn development in the Northern Virginia suburbs around D.C. Clay hated the sprawl of Northern Virginia and quietly paid his dues to two environmental groups fighting the developers. Her mother was an aggressive social climber who wanted her two daughters to marry serious money. Clay had not seen his mother in eleven years. He had no social ambitions whatsoever. He had no money.For almost four years, the romance had survived a monthly brawl, the majority of them engineered by her mother. It clung to life by love and l.u.s.t and a determination to succeed regardless of the odds against it. But Clay sensed a fatigue on Rebecca's part, a creeping weariness brought on by age and constant family pressure. She was twenty-eight. She did not want a career. She wanted a husband and a family and long days spent at the country club spoiling the children, playing tennis, doing lunch with her mother.Paulette Tullos appeared from thin air and startled him. "Got nailed, didn't you?" she said with a smirk. "A new murder case.""You were there?" Clay asked."Saw it all. Saw it coming, saw it happen, couldn't save you, pal.""Thanks. I owe you one."He would have offered her a seat, but there were no others in his office. There was no room for chairs and besides they were not needed because all of his clients were in jail. Sitting and chatting were not part of the daily routine at OPD."What are my chances of getting rid of it?" he said."Slim to impossible. Who you gonna dump it on?""I was thinking of you.""Sorry. I got two murder cases already. Glenda won't move it for you."Paulette was his closest friend inside the OPD. A product of a rough section of the city, she had scratched her way through college and law school at night and had seemed destined for the middle cla.s.ses until she met an older Greek gentleman with a fondness for young black women. He married her and set her up comfortably in North West Washington, then eventually returned to Europe, where he preferred to live. Paulette suspected he had a wife or two over there, but she wasn't particularly concerned about it. She was well-off and seldom alone. After ten years, the arrangement was working fine."I heard the prosecutors talking," she said. "Another street killing, but questionable motive.""Not exactly the first one in the history of D.C.""But no apparent motive.""There's always a motive-cash, drugs, s.e.x, a new pair of Nikes.""But the kid was pretty tame, no history of violence?""First impressions are seldom true, Paulette, you know that.""Jermaine got one very similar two days ago. No apparent motive.""I hadn't heard.""You might try him. He's new and ambitious and, who knows, you might dump it on him.""I'll do it right now."Jermaine wasn't in but Glenda's door, for some reason, was slightly open. Clay rapped it with his knuckles while walking through it. "Got a minute?" he said, knowing that Glenda hated sparing a minute with anyone on her staff. She did a pa.s.sable job running the office, managing the caseloads, holding the budget together, and, most important, playing the politics at City Hall. But she did not like people. She preferred to do her work behind a locked door."Sure," she said abruptly, with no conviction whatsoever. It was clear she did not appreciate the intrusion, which was exactly the reception Clay had expected."I happened to be in the Criminal Division this morning at the wrong time, got nailed with a murder case, one I'd rather pa.s.s on. I just finished the Traxel case, which, as you know, lasted for almost three years. I need a break from murder. How about one of the younger guys?""You beggin' off, Mr. Carter?" she said, eyebrows arched."Absolutely. Load up the dope and burglaries for a few months. That's all I'm asking.""And who do you suggest should handle the, uh, what's the case?""Tequila Watson.""Tequila Watson. Who should get him, Mr. Carter?""I don't really care. I just need a break."She leaned back in her chair, like some wise old chairman of the board, and began chewing on the end of a pen. "Don't we all, Mr. Carter? We'd all love a break, wouldn't we?""Yes or no?""We have eighty lawyers here, Mr. Carter, about half of whom are qualified to handle murder cases. Everybody has at least two. Move it if you can, but I'm not going to rea.s.sign it."As he was leaving, Clay said, "I could sure use a raise if you wanted to work on it.""Next year, Mr. Carter. Next year.""And a paralegal.""Next year."The Tequila Watson file remained in the very neat and organized office of Jarrett Clay Carter II, Attorney-at-Law.

3

THE BUILDING WAS, after all, a jail. Though it was of recent vintage and upon its grand opening had been the source of great pride for a handful of city leaders, it was still a jail. Designed by cutting-edge urban defense consultants and adorned with high-tech security gadgetry, it was still a jail. Efficient, safe, humane, and, though built for the next century, it was overbooked the day it opened. From the outside it resembled a large red cinderblock resting on one end, windowless, hopeless, filled with criminals and the countless people who guarded them. To make someone feel better it had been labeled a Criminal Justice Center, a modern euphemism employed widely by the architects of such projects. It was a jail.And it was very much a part of Clay Carter's turf. He met almost all of his clients there, after they were arrested and before they were released on bond, if they were able to post it. Many were not. Many were arrested for nonviolent crimes, and whether guilty or innocent, they were kept locked away until their final court appearances. Tigger Banks had spent almost eight months in the jail for a burglary he did not commit. He lost both of his part-time jobs. He lost his apartment. He lost his dignity. Clay's last phone call from Tigger had been a gut-wrenching plea from the kid for money. He was on crack again, on the streets and headed for trouble.Every criminal lawyer in the city had a Tigger Banks story, all with unhappy endings and nothing to be done about them. It cost $41,000 a year to house an inmate. Why was the system so anxious to burn the money?Clay was tired of those questions, and tired of the Tiggers of his career, and tired of the jail and the same surly guards who greeted him at the bas.e.m.e.nt entrance used by most lawyers. And he was tired of the smell of the place, and the idiotic little procedures put in place by pencil pushers who read manuals on how to keep jails safe. It was 9 A.M., a Wednesday, though for Clay every day was the same. He went to a sliding window under a sign for ATTORNEYS, and after the clerk was certain that he had waited long enough, she opened the window and said nothing. Nothing needed to be said, since she and Clay had been scowling at each other without greetings for almost five years now. He signed a register, handed it back, and she closed the window, no doubt a bulletproof one to protect her from rampaging lawyers.Glenda had spent two years trying to implement a simple call-ahead method whereby OPD lawyers, and everyone else for that matter, could telephone an hour before they arrived and their clients would be somewhere in the vicinity of the attorney conference room. It was a simple request, and its simplicity had no doubt led to its demise in bureaucratic h.e.l.l.There was a row of chairs against a wall where the lawyers were expected to wait while their requests were sent along at a snail's pace to someone upstairs. By 9 A.M. there were always a few lawyers sitting there, fidgeting with files, whispering on cell phones, ignoring one another. At one point early in his young career Clay had brought along thick law books to read and highlight in yellow and thus impress the other lawyers with his intensity. Now he pulled out the Post and read the sports section. As always, he glanced at his watch to see how much time would be wasted waiting for Tequila Watson.Twenty-four minutes. Not bad.A guard led him down the hall to a long room divided by a thick sheet of Plexiglas. The guard pointed to the fourth booth from the end, and Clay took a seat. Through the gla.s.s, he could see that the oilier half of the booth was empty. More waiting. He pulled papers from his briefcase and began thinking of questions for Tequila. The booth to his right was occupied by a lawyer in the midst of a tense, but muted, conversation with his client, a person Clay could not see.The guard returned and whispered to Clay, as if such conversations were illegal. "Your boy had a bad night," he said, crouching and glancing up at the security cameras."Okay," Clay said."He jumped on a kid around two this morning, beat the h.e.l.l out of him, caused a pretty good brawl. Took six of our guys to break it up. He's a mess.""Tequila?""Watson, that's him. Put the other boy in the hospital. Expect some additional charges.""Are you sure?" Clay asked, looking over his shoulder."It's all on video." End of conversation.They looked up as Tequila was brought to his seat by two guards, each with an elbow secured. He was handcuffed, and though the inmates were customarily set free to chat with their lawyers, Tequila's handcuffs were not coming off. He sat down. The guards moved away but remained close.His left eye was swollen shut, with dried blood in both corners. The right one was open and the pupil was bright red. There was tape and gauze in the center of his forehead, and a b.u.t.terfly Band-Aid on his chin. Both lips and both jaws were puffy and oversized to the point that Clay wasn't sure he had the right client. Someone somewhere had just beaten the h.e.l.l out of the guy sitting three feet away through the Plexiglas.Clay picked up the black phone receiver and motioned for Tequila to do likewise. He cradled it awkwardly with both hands."You are Tequila Watson?" Clay said with as much eye contact as possible.He nodded yes, very slowly, as if loose bones were shifting throughout his head."Have you seen a doctor?"A nod, yes."Did the cops do this to you?"Without hesitation he shook his head. No."The other guys in the cell do it?"A nod, yes."The cops tell me you started the fight, beat up some kid, put him in the hospital. Is that true?"A nod, yes.It was hard to imagine Tequila Watson, all 150 pounds of him, bullying people in a crowded cell in the D.C. jail."Did you know the kid?"Lateral movement. No.So far his receiver had not been needed, and Clay was tired of the sign language. "Why, exactly, did you beat up this kid?"With great effort the swollen lips finally parted. "I don't know," he managed to grunt, the words slow and painful."That's great, Tequila. That gives me something to work with. How about self-defense? Did the kid come after you? Throw the first punch?""No.""Was he stoned or drunk?""No.""Was he trash-talking, making threats, that kind of stuff?""He was asleep.""Asleep?""Yeah.""Was he snoring too loud? Forget it."Eye contact was broken by the lawyer, who suddenly needed to write something on his yellow legal pad. Clay scribbled the date, time, place, client's name, then ran out of important facts to take note of. He had a hundred questions filed away in his memory, and after that a hundred more. They rarely varied in these initial interviews; just the basics of his client's miserable life and how they came to meet. The truth was guarded like rare gems to be pa.s.sed through the Plexiglas only when the client wasn't threatened. Questions about family and school and jobs and friends were usually answered with a good measure of honesty. But questions related to the crime were subject to gamesmanship. Every criminal lawyer knew not to dwell too much on the crime during the first interviews. Dig for details elsewhere. Investigate without guidance from the client. The truth might come later.Tequila, however, seemed quite different. So far, he had no fear of the truth. Clay decided to save many, many hours of his precious time. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "They say you killed a boy, shot him five times in the head."The swollen head nodded slightly."A Ramon Pumphrey, also known as Pumpkin. Did you know this guy?"A nod, yes."Did you shoot him?" Clay's voice was almost a whisper. The guards were asleep but the question was still one that lawyers did not ask, not at the jail anyway."I did," Tequila said softly."Five times?""Thought it was six."Oh well, so much for a trial. I'll have this file closed in sixty days, Clay thought to himself. A quick plea bargain. A guilty plea in return for life in prison."A drug deal?" he asked."No.""Did you rob him?""No.""Help me here, Tequila. You had a reason, didn't you?""I knew him.""That's it? You knew him? That's your best excuse?"He nodded but said nothing."A girl, right? You caught him with your girlfriend? You have a girlfriend, don't you?"He shook his head. No."Did the shooting have anything to do with s.e.x?"No."Talk to me, Tequila, I'm your lawyer. I'm the only person on the planet who's working right now to help you. Give me something to work with here.""I used to buy drugs from Pumpkin.""Now you're talking. How long ago?""Couple of years.""Okay. Did he owe you some money or some drugs? Did you owe him something?""No."Clay took a deep breath and for the first time noticed Tequila's hands. They were nicked with small cuts and swollen so badly that none of the knuckles could be seen. "You fight a lot?"Maybe a nod, maybe a shake. "Not anymore.""You once did?""Kid stuff. I fought Pumpkin once."Finally. Clay took another deep breath and raised his pen. "Thank you, sir, for your help. When, exactly, did you have a fight with Pumpkin?""Long time ago.""How old were you?"A shrug, one in response to a stupid question. Clay knew from experience that his clients had no concept of time. They got robbed yesterday or they got arrested last month, but probe beyond thirty days and all history melted together. Street life was a struggle to survive today, with no time to reminisce and nothing in the past to get nostalgic over. There was no future so that point of reference was likewise unknown."Kids," Tequila said, sticking with the one-word answer, probably a habit with or without broken jaws."How old were you?""Maybe twelve.""Were you in school?""Playing basketball.""Was it a nasty fight, cuts and broken bones and such?""No. Big dudes broke it up."Clay laid the receiver down for a moment and summarized his defense. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client shot Mr. Pumphrey (who was unarmed) five or six times at point-blank range in a dirty alley with a stolen gun for two reasons; first, he recognized him, and second, they had a playground shoving match about eight years ago. May not sound like much, ladies and gentlemen, but all of us know that in Washington, D.C., those two reasons are as good as any.Into the receiver again, he asked, "Did you see Pumpkin often?""No.""When was the last time you saw him before he got shot?"A shrug. Back to the time problem."Did you see him once a week?""No.""Once a month?""No.""Twice a year?""Maybe.""When you saw him two days ago, did you argue with him? Help me here, Tequila, I'm working too hard for details.""We didn't argue.""Why did you go into the alley?"Tequila laid down the receiver and began moving his head back I and forth, very slowly, to work out some kinks. He was obviously in pain. The handcuffs appeared to be cutting into his skin. When he picked up the receiver again he said, "I'll tell you the truth. I had a gun, and I wanted to shoot somebody. Anybody, it didn't matter. I left the Camp and just started walking, going nowhere, looking for somebody to shoot. I almost got a Korean dude outside his store, but there were too many people around. I saw Pumpkin. I knew him. We talked for a minute. I said I had some rock if he wanted a hit. We went to the alley. I shot the boy. I don't know why. I just wanted to kill somebody."When it was clear the narrative was over, Clay asked, "What is the Camp?""Rehab place. That's where I was staying.""How long had you been there?"Time again. But the answer was a great surprise. "Hundred and fifteen days.""You had been clean for a hundred and fifteen days?""Yep.""Were you clean when you shot Pumpkin?""Yep. Still am. Hundred and sixteen days.""You ever shot anybody before?""No.""Where'd you get the gun?""Stole it from my cousin's house.""Is the Camp a lockdown place?""Yes.""Did you escape?""I was getting two hours. After a hundred days, you can go out for two hours, then go back in.""So you walked out of the Camp, went to your cousin's house, stole a gun, then began walking the streets looking for someone to shoot, and you found Pumpkin?"Tequila was nodding by the end of the sentence. "That's what happened. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I just don't know."There was possibly some moisture in the red right eye of Tequila, perhaps brought on by guilt and remorse, but Clay could not be certain. He pulled some papers out of his briefcase and slid them through the opening. "Sign these by the red check marks. I'll come back in a couple of days."Tequila ignored the papers. "What's gonna happen to me?" he asked."Well talk about it later.""When can I get out?""It might be a long time."

4

THE PEOPLE WHO RAN Deliverance Camp saw no need to hide from the problems. They made no effort to get away from the war zone from which they took their casualties. No quiet facility in the country. No secluded clinic in a better part of town. Their campers came from the streets and they would go back to the streets.The Camp faced W Street in N.W., within view of a row of boarded-up duplexes that were sometimes used by crack dealers. Within plain sight was the notorious empty lot of an old gas station. Here drug peddlers met their wholesalers and did their exchanges regardless of who might be looking. According to unofficial police records, the lot had produced more bullet-laden corpses than any other piece of turf in D.C.Clay drove slowly down W Street, doors locked, hands clutching the wheel, eyes cutting in all directions, ears awaiting the inevitable sound of gunfire. A white boy in this ghetto was an irresistible target, regardless of the time of day.D Camp was an ancient warehouse, long abandoned by whoever last used it for storage, condemned by the city, then auctioned off for a few dollars to a nonprofit that somehow saw potential. It was a hulking structure, the red brick spray-painted maroon from sidewalk to roof, with the lower levels repainted by the neighborhood graffiti specialists. It rambled down the street then back an entire city block. All the doors and windows along the sides had been cemented shut and painted, so that fencing and razor wire were not needed. Anyone wishing to escape would need a hammer, a chisel, and a hard day of uninterrupted labor.Clay parked his Honda Accord directly in front of the building and debated whether to race away or get out. There was a small sign above a set of thick double doors: DELIVERANCE CAMP. PRIVATE. No trespa.s.sing. As if someone could wander inside, or want to. There was the usual collection of street characters loitering about: some young toughs no doubt hauling drugs and enough a.s.sault weapons to hold off the police, a couple of winos staggering in tandem, what appeared to be family members waiting to visit those inside D Camp. His job had led him to most of the undesirable places in D.C., and he had grown proficient at acting as though he had no fear. I'm a lawyer. I'm here on business. Get out of my way. Don't speak to me. In nearly five years with OPD, he had yet to be shot at.He locked the Accord and left it at the curb. While doing so he sadly admitted to himself that few if any of the thugs on this street would be attracted to his little car. It was twelve years old and pushing two hundred thousand miles. Take it, he said.He held his breath and ignored the curious stares from the sidewalk gang. There's not another white face within two miles of here, he thought. He pushed a b.u.t.ton by the doors and a voice cracked through the intercom. "Who is it?""My name is Clay Carter. I'm a lawyer. I have an eleven o'clock appointment with Talmadge X." He said the name clearly, still certain that it was a mistake. On the phone he had asked the secretary how to spell Mr. X's last name, and she said, quite rudely, that it was not a last name at all. What was it? It was an X. Take it or leave it. It wasn't about to change."Just a minute," the voice said, and Clay began to wait. He stared at the doors, trying desperately to ignore everything around him. He was aware of movement off to his left side, something close."Say, man, you a lawyer?" came the question, a high-pitched young black male voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.Clay turned and looked into the funky sunshades of his tormentor. "Yep," he said, as coolly as possible."You ain't no lawyer," the young man said. A small gang was forming behind him, all gawking."Afraid so," Clay said."Can't be no lawyer, man.""No way," said one of the gang."You sure you're a lawyer?""Yep," Clay said, playing along."If you a lawyer, why you drivin' a s.h.i.t car like that?"Clay wasn't sure which hurt more-the laughter from the sidewalk or the truth of the statement. He made matters worse."My wife drives the Mercedes," he said, a bad attempt at humor."You ain't got no wife. You ain't got no wedding ring."What else have they noticed? Clay asked himself. They were still laughing when one of the doors clicked and opened. He managed to step casually inside instead of diving for safety. The reception area was a bunker with a concrete floor, cinderblock walls, metal doors, no windows, low ceiling, a few lights, everything but sandbags and weapons. Behind a long government-issue table was a receptionist answering two phones. Without looking up she said, "He'll be just a minute."Talmadge X was a wiry, intense man of about fifty, not an ounce of fat on his narrow frame, not a hint of a smile on his wrinkled and aged face. His eyes were large and wounded, scarred by decades on the streets. He was very black and his clothes were very white-heavily starched cotton shirt and dungarees. Black combat boots shined to perfection. His head was shined too, not a trace of hair.He pointed to the only chair in his makeshift office, and he closed the door. "You got paperwork?" he asked abruptly. Evidently, small talk was not one of his talents.Clay handed over the necessary doc.u.ments, all bearing the indecipherable handcuffed scrawl of Tequila Watson. Talmadge X read every word on every page. Clay noticed he did not wear a watch, nor did he like clocks. Time had been left at the front door."When did he sign these?""They're dated today. I saw him about two hours ago at the jail.""And you're his counsel of record?" Talmadge X asked. "Officially?"The man had been through the criminal justice system more than once. "Yes. Appointed by the court, a.s.signed by the Office of the Public Defender.""Glenda still there?""Yes.""We go way back." It was as close to chitchat as they would get."Did you know about the shooting?" Clay asked, taking a legal pad to write on from his briefcase."Not until you called an hour ago. We knew he left Tuesday and didn't come back, knew something was wrong, but then we expect things to go wrong." His words were slow and precise, his eyes blinked often but never strayed. "Tell me what happened.""This is all confidential, right?" Clay said."I'm his counselor. I'm also his minister. You're his lawyer. Everything said in this room stays in this room. Deal?""Right."Clay gave the details he'd collected so far, including Tequila's version of events. Technically, ethically, he was not supposed to reveal to anyone statements made to him by his client. But who would really care? Talmadge X knew far more about Tequila Watson than Clay would ever learn.As the narrative went on and the events unfolded in front of Talmadge X, his stare finally broke and he closed his eyes. He tilted his head upward, to the ceiling, as if he wanted to ask G.o.d why this happened. He drifted away, deep in thought and deeply troubled.When Clay finished, Talmadge X said, "What can I do?""I'd like to see his file. He's given me authorization."The file was lying squarely on the desk in front of Talmadge X. "Later," he said. "But let's talk first. What do you want to know?""Let's start with Tequila. Where'd he come from?"The stare was back, Talmadge was ready to help. "The streets, same place they all come from. He was referred by Social Service, because he was a hopeless case. No family to speak of. Never knew his father. Mother died of AIDS when he was three. Raised by an aunt or two, pa.s.sed around the family, foster homes here and there, in and out of court and juvenile homes. Dropped out of school. Typical case for us. Are you familiar with D Camp?""No.""We get the hard cases, the permanent junkies. We lock 'em down for months, give 'em a boot camp environment. There are eight of us here, eight counselors, and we're all addicts, once an addict always an addict, but you must know that. Four of us are now ministers. I served thirteen years for drugs and robbery, then I found Jesus. Anyway, we specialize in the young crack addicts n.o.body else can help.""Only crack?""Crack's the drug, man. Cheap, plentiful, takes your mind off life for a few minutes. Once you start it you can't quit.""He couldn't tell me much about his criminal record."Talmadge X opened the file and flipped pages. "That's probably because he doesn't remember much. Tequila was stoned for years. Here it is; bunch of petty stuff when he was a juvenile, robbery, stolen cars, the usual stuff we all did so we could buy drugs. At eighteen he did four months for shoplifting. Got him for possession last year, three months there. Not a bad record for one of us. Nothing violent.""How many felonies?""I don't see one.""I guess that'll help," Clay said. "In some way.""Sounds like nothing will help.""I'm told there were at least two eyewitnesses. I'm not optimistic.""Has he confessed to the cops?""No. They've told me that he clammed up when they caught him and has said nothing.""That's rare.""It is," Clay said."Sounds like life with no parole," said Talmadge X, the voice of experience."You got it.""That's not the end of the world for us, you know, Mr. Carter. In many ways, life in prison is better than life on these streets. I got lots of pals who prefer it. Sad thing is, Tequila was one of the few who could've made it.""Why is that?""Kid's got a brain. Once we got him cleaned up and healthy, he felt so good about himself. For the first time in his adult life, he was sober. He couldn't read so we taught him. He liked to draw so we encouraged art. We never get excited around here, but Tequila made us proud. He was even thinking about changing his name, for obvious reasons.""You never get excited?""We lose sixty-six percent, Mr. Carter. Two thirds. We get 'em in here, sick as dogs, stoned, their bodies and brains cooked on crack, malnourished, even starving, skin rashes, hair falling out, the sickest junkies D.C. can produce, and we fatten 'em up, dry 'em out, lock 'em down in basic training where they're up at six A.M. scrubbing their rooms and waiting on inspection, breakfast at six-thirty, then nonstop brainwashing from a tough group of counselors who've all been exactly where they've been, no bulls.h.i.t, pardon my language, don't even try to con us because we're all cons ourselves. After a month they're clean and they're very proud. They don't miss the outside world because there's nothing good waiting for them-no jobs, no families, n.o.body loves them. They're easy to brainwash, and we are relentless. After three months we might, depending on the patient, start easing them back onto the street for an hour or two a day. Nine out of ten return, anxious to get back into their little rooms. We keep them for a year, Mr. Carter. Twelve months, not a day less. We try to educate them some, maybe a little job training with computers. We work hard at finding them jobs. They graduate, we all have a good cry. They leave, and within a year two thirds of them are doing crack again and headed for the gutter.""Do you take them back?""Rarely. If they know they can come back, then they're more likely to screw up.""What happens to the other third?""That's why we're here, Mr. Carter. That's why I'm a counselor. Those folks, like me, survive in the world, and they do it with a toughness no one else understands. We've been to h.e.l.l and back and it's an ugly road. Many of our survivors work with other addicts.""How many people can you house at one time?""We have eighty beds, all full. We have room for twice that many, but there's never enough money.""Who funds you?""Eighty percent federal grants, and there's no guarantee from year to year. The rest we beg from private foundations. We're too busy to raise a lot of money."Clay turned a page and made a note. "There's not a single family member I can talk to?"Talmadge X shuffled through the file, shaking his head. "Maybe an aunt somewhere, but don't expect much. Even if you found one, how could she help you?""She can't. But it's nice to have a family member to contact."Talmadge X kept flipping through the file as if he had something in mind. Clay suspected he was looking for notes or entries to be removed before it was handed over."When can I see that?" Clay asked."How about tomorrow? I'd like to review it first."Clay shrugged. If Talmadge X said tomorrow, then it would be tomorrow. "All right, Mr. Carter, I don't get his motive. Tell me why.""I can't. You tell me. You've known him for almost four months. No history of violence or guns. No propensity for fighting. Sounds like he was the model patient. You've seen it all. You tell me why.""I've seen everything," Talmadge X said, his eyes even sadder than before. "But I've never seen this. The boy was afraid of violence. We don't tolerate fighting in here, but boys will be boys, and there are always the little rituals of intimidation. Tequila was one of the weak ones. There's no way he would leave here, steal a gun, pick a random victim, and kill him. And there's no way he would jump on a guy in jail and send him to the hospital. I just don't believe it.""So what do I tell the jury?""What jury? This is a guilty plea and you know it. He's gone, off to prison for the rest of his life. I'm sure he knows plenty of folk there."There was a long gap in the conversation, a break that seemed not to bother Talmadge X in the least. He closed the file and shoved it away. The meeting was about to be over. But Clay was the visitor. It was time to leave."I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "What time?""After ten o'clock," Talmadge X said. "I'll walk you out.""It's not necessary," Clay said, delighted with the escort.The gang had grown and appeared to be waiting for the lawyer to exit D Camp. They were sitting and leaning on the Accord, which was still there and still in one piece. Whatever fun they'd planned was quickly forgotten at the sight of Talmadge X. With a quick jerk of his head he scattered the gang, and Clay sped away, untouched and dreading his return the next day.He drove eight blocks and found Lamont Street, then the corner of Georgia Avenue, where he stopped for a moment for a quick look around. There was no shortage of alleys in which one might shoot someone, and he was not about to go looking for blood. The neighborhood was as desolate as the one he'd just left. He'd come back later with Rodney, a black paralegal who knew the streets, and they'd poke around and ask questions.

5

THE POTOMAC COUNTRY CLUB in McLean, Virginia, was established a hundred years earlier by some wealthy people who'd been snubbed by the other country clubs. Rich folks can tolerate almost anything, but not rejection. The outcasts pumped their considerable resources into Potomac and built the finest club in the D.C. area. They picked off a few Senators from rival clubs and enticed other trophy members, and before long Potomac had bought respectability. Once it had enough members to sustain itself, it began the obligatory practice of excluding others. Though it was still known as a new country club, it looked and felt and acted like all the rest.It did, however, differ in one significant way. Potomac had never denied the fact that its memberships could be bought outright if a person had enough money. Forget waiting lists and screening committees and secret votes by the admissions board. If you were new to D.C., or if you suddenly struck it rich, then status and prestige could be obtained overnight if your check was large enough. As a result, Potomac had the nicest golf course, tennis facilities, pools, clubhouses, dining room, everything an ambitious country club could want.As far as Clay could tell, Bennett Van Horn had written the big check. Regardless of which cloud of smoke he was blowing at the moment, Clay's parents did not have money and certainly would not have been accepted at Potomac. His father had sued Bennett eighteen years earlier over a bad real estate deal in Alexandria. At the time, Bennett was a big-talking Realtor with lots of debts and very few unenc.u.mbered a.s.sets. He was not a member of the Potomac Country Club then, though he now acted as if he'd been born there.Bennett the Bulldozer struck gold in the late eighties when he invaded the rolling hills of the Virginia countryside. Deals fell into place. Partners were found. He didn't invent the slash-and-burn style of suburban development, but he certainly perfected it. On pristine hills he built malls. Near a hallowed battleground, he built a subdivision. He leveled an entire village for one of his planned developments-apartments, condos, big houses, small houses, a park in the center with a shallow muddy pond and two tennis courts, a quaint little shopping district that looked nice in the architect's office but never got built. Ironically, though irony was lost on Bennett, he named his cookie-cutter projects after the landscape he was destroying-Rolling Meadows, Whispering Oaks, Forest Hills, etcetera. He joined other sprawl artists and lobbied the state legislature in Richmond for more money for more roads so more subdivisions could be thrown up and more traffic created. In doing so, he became a figure in the political game, and his ego swelled.In the early nineties, his BVH Group grew rapidly, with revenues increasing at a slightly faster rate than loan payments. He and his wife, Barb, bought a home in a prestigious section of McLean. They joined the Potomac Country Club and became fixtures. They worked hard at creating the illusion that they had always had money.In 1994, according to the SEC filings that Clay had studied diligently and kept copies of, Bennett decided to take his company public and raise $200 million. He planned to use the money to retire some debt, but, more important, to "... invest in the unlimited future of Northern Virginia." In other words, more bulldozers, more slash-and-burn developments. The thought of Bennett Van Horn with that kind of cash no doubt thrilled the local Caterpillar dealers. And it should have horrified the local governments, but they were asleep.With a blue-chip investment banker leading the way, BVHG stock roared out of the blocks at $10 a share and peaked at $16.50, not a bad run but far short of what its founder and CEO had predicted. A week before the public offering he had boasted in the Daily Profit , a local business tabloid, that "... the boys on Wall Street are sure it'll hit forty bucks a share." In the Over the Counter market, the stock floated back to earth and landed with a thud in the $6.00 range. Bennett had unwisely refused to dump some stock like all good entrepreneurs do. He held on to all of his four million shares and watched as his market value went from sixty-six million to almost nothing.Every weekday morning, just for the sheer fun of it, Clay checked the price of one stock and one stock only. BVHG was currently trading at $0.87 per share."How's your stock doing?" was the great slap-in-the-face Clay'd never had the nerve to use."Maybe tonight," he mumbled to himself as he drove into the entrance of the Potomac Country Club. Since there was a potential marriage in the near future, Clay's shortcomings were fair game around the dinner table. But not Mr. Van Horn's. "Hey, congratulations, Bennett, the stock has moved up twelve cents in the past two months," he said out loud. "Kicking a.s.s, aren't you, old boy! Time for another Mercedes?" All the things he wanted to say.To avoid the tip a.s.sociated with valet parking, Clay hid his Accord in a distant lot behind some tennis courts. As he hiked to the clubhouse he straightened his tie and continued his mumbling. He hated the place-hated it for all the a.s.sholes who were members, hated it because he could not join, hated it because it was the Van Horns' turf and they wanted him to feel like a trespa.s.ser. For the hundredth time that day, as every day, he asked himself why he'd fallen in love with a girl whose parents were so insufferable. If he had a plan, it was to elope with Rebecca and move to New Zealand, far from the Office of the Public Defender, and as far away as possible from her family.The gaze from the frosty hostess told him, I know you are not a member, but I'll take you to your table anyway. "Follow me," she said with the slight makings of a fake smile. Clay said nothing. He swallowed hard, looked straight ahead, and tried to ignore the heavy knot in his stomach. How was he supposed to enjoy a meal in such surroundings? He and Rebecca had eaten there twice-once with Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn, once without. The food was expensive and quite good, but then Clay lived on processed turkey so his standards were low and he knew it.Bennett was absent. Clay gently hugged Mrs. Van Horn, a ritual both of them disliked, then offered a rather pathetic, "Happy Birthday." He pecked Rebecca on the cheek. It was a good table, one with a sweeping view of the eighteenth green, a very prestigious spot to eat because one could watch the geezers wallow in the sand traps and miss their two-foot putts."Where's Mr. Van Horn?" Clay asked, hoping he was stuck out of town, or better yet, hospitalized with some grave ailment."He's on his way," Rebecca said."He spent the day in Richmond, meeting with the Governor," added Mrs. Van Horn, for good measure. They were relentless. Clay wanted to say, "You win! You win! You're more important than I am!""What's he working on?" he asked politely, once again astounded at his ability to sound sincere. Clay knew exactly why the Bulldozer was in Richmond. The state was broke and could not afford to build new roads in Northern Virginia, where Bennett and his ilk demanded that they be built. The votes were in Northern Virginia. The legislature was considering a local referendum on sales taxes so the cities and counties around D.C. could build their own highways. More roads, more condos, more malls, more traffic, more money for an ailing BVHG."Political stuff," Barb said. In truth, she probably didn't know what her husband and the Governor were discussing. Clay doubted if she knew the current price of BVHG stock. She knew the days her bridge club met and she knew how little money Clay earned, but most other details were left to Bennett."How was your day?" Rebecca asked, gently but quickly steering the conversation away from politics. Clay had used the word sprawl two or three times when debating issues with her parents and things had become tense."The usual," he said. "And you?""We have hearings tomorrow, so the office was hopping today.""Rebecca tells me you have another murder case," Barb said."Yes, that's true," Clay said, wondering what other aspects of his job as a public defender they had been talking about. Each had a gla.s.s of white wine sitting before her. Each gla.s.s was at least half-empty. He had walked in on a discussion, probably about him. Or was he being unduly sensitive? Perhaps."Who's your client?" Barb asked."A kid from the streets.""Who did he kill?""The victim was another kid from the streets."This relieved her somewhat. Blacks killing blacks. Who cared if they all killed each other? "Did he do it?" she asked."As of now he is presumed to be innocent. That's the way it works.""In other words, he did it.""It sort of looks that way.""How can you defend people like that? If you know they're guilty, how can you work so hard trying to get them off?"Rebecca took a large gulp of wine and decided to sit this one out. She had been coming to his rescue less and less in recent months. A nagging thought was that, while life would be magical with her, it would be a nightmare with them. The nightmares were winning."Our Const.i.tution guarantees everyone a lawyer and a fair trial," he said condescendingly, as if every fool should know this. "I'm just doing my job."Barb rolled her new eyes and looked at the eighteenth green. Many of the ladies at Potomac had been using a plastic surgeon whose specialty, evidently, was the Asian look. After the second session the eyes strained backward at the corners, and, while wrinkle-free, were grossly artificial. Ol' Barb had been nipped and tucked and Botoxed without a long-range plan, and the transition simply was not working.Rebecca took another long pull on the wine. The first time they had eaten there with her parents she had kicked off a shoe under the table and run her toes up and down his leg, as if to say, "Let's blow this joint and hop in the sack." But not tonight. She was icy and seemed preoccupied. Clay knew she wasn't worrying about whatever meaningless hearings she would suffer through tomorrow. There were issues here, just under the surface, and he wondered if this dinner might be a showdown, a powwow with the future on the line.Bennett arrived in a rush, full of bogus apologies for being late. He slapped Clay on the back as if they were fraternity brothers, and kissed his girls on the cheeks."How's the Governor?" Barb asked, loud enough for the diners across the room to hear."Great. He sends his best. The President of Korea is in town next week. The Guv has invited us to a black-tie gala at the mansion." This too was offered at full volume."Oh really!" Barb gushed, her redone face erupting into a contortion of delight.Should feel right at home with the Koreans, Clay thought."Should be a blast," Bennett said as he pulled a collection of cell phones from his pocket and lined them up on the table. A few seconds behind him came a waiter with a double Scotch, Chivas with a little ice, the usual.Clay ordered an ice tea."How's my Congressman?" Bennett yelled across the table to Rebecca, then cut his eyes to the right to make sure the couple at the next table had heard him. I have my very own Congressman!"He's fine, Daddy. He sends his regards. He's very busy.""You look tired, honey, a tough day?""Not bad."The three Van Horns took a sip. Rebecca's fatigue was a favorite topic between her parents. They felt she worked too hard. They felt she shouldn't work at all. She was pushing thirty and it was time to marry a fine young man with a well-paying job and a bright future so she could bear their grandchildren and spend the rest of her life at the Potomac Country Club.Clay would not have been too concerned with whatever the h.e.l.l they wanted, except that Rebecca had the same dreams. She had once talked of a career in public service, but after four years on the Hill she was fed up with bureaucracies. She wanted a husband and babies and a large home in the suburbs.Menus were pa.s.sed around. Bennett got a call and rudely handled it at the table. Some deal was falling through. The future of America's financial freedom hung in the balance."What should I wear?" Barb asked Rebecca as Clay hid behind his menu."Something new," Rebecca said."You're right," Barb readily agreed. "Let's go shopping Sat.u.r.day.""Good idea."Bennett saved the deal, and they ordered. He graced them with the details of the phone call-a bank was not moving fast enough, he had to light a fire, blah, blah. This went on until the salads arrived.After a few bites, Bennett said, with his mouth full, as usual, "While I was down in Richmond, I had lunch with my close friend Ian Ludkin, Speaker of the House. You'd really like this guy, Clay, a real prince of a man. A perfect Virginia gentleman."Clay chewed and nodded as if he couldn't wait to meet all of Bennett's good friends."Anyway, Ian owes me some favors, most of them do down there, and so I just popped the question."It took Clay a second to realize that the women had stopped eating. Their forks were at rest as they watched and listened with antic.i.p.ation."What question?" Clay asked because it seemed that they were expecting him to say something."Well, I told him about you, Clay. Bright young lawyer, sharp as a tack, hard worker