"I'm sorry about your friend Hugo," he said. "I liked him."

"Thanks." She really didn't want to talk about Hugo, but with plenty of time to kill they could chat about anything. She said his family was coping and trying to get by, but the days were long and difficult. He wanted to know about the accident, how and when it happened and what had been learned since then. He doubted it was really an accident and she assured him it was not. He was curious as to why no one "from the outside" had stepped in to investigate Hugo's death. Careful with her words, she explained that, hopefully, things were moving in that direction. They talked about Wilton, Todd Short, the D.C. lawyers, and a little of life on death row.

After a long pause, one of many, he said, "I had a visitor yesterday, one that was not at all expected."

"Who was it?"

"A man named Lyman Gritt. Heard of him?"

"Yes, we've actually met, though I don't remember. I'm told he was with the rescue team that worked the accident and got me to the hospital. I stopped by his office to say hello and thanks, but he seems to have been replaced. The timing looks suspicious."

Junior smiled and leaned closer. "It's all suspicious, Lacy. Wheels are turning and you'd best be careful."

She shrugged. Keep talking.

He said, "Gritt's a good man. He was in favor of the casino, so we were on opposite sides long ago. But we have a history. My father and his uncle were raised together in a shack just off the reservation. They were like brothers. I can't say the families are close now, because we fought over the casino. But Gritt has a conscience and he knows about the corruption. He never liked the Chief; now he really despises him and his family. The Chief's son is now the constable, so any investigation into your accident will go nowhere. It's all being covered up, as I'm sure you suspect. But Gritt knows the truth, and he thinks he has the evidence to prove it. That's why he wants to talk to you."

"To me?"

"That's right. He thinks he can trust you. He doesn't trust the local boys in Brunswick County, not that they would get involved. As you've probably learned, our tribe is wary of outsiders, especially those with badges. But Gritt has some evidence."

"What kind of evidence?"

"He didn't say, or wouldn't say. These walls have been known to hear too much, so we were cautious. You need to understand, Lacy, that Gritt is being threatened. He has a wife and three kids, and the Chief and his pals can be effectively intimidating. The entire tribe lives under a cloud of fear and people just don't talk. Plus, with the casino life is better these days, so why rock the boat?"

Lacy had serious doubts about the prison authorities eavesdropping on conversations between attorneys and their death row clients, but then she realized that the meeting with Gritt took place in another part of Q Wing. Gritt was not a lawyer.

"What makes him think he can trust me? We've never met."

"Because you're not a cop and you're the first person to set foot on the reservation and ask questions. You and Mr. Hatch."

"Okay. How am I supposed to meet with Gritt?"

"Wilton will facilitate it."

"So who makes the next move?"

"Gritt and I agreed that I'll contact Wilton and he'll arrange things. That is, if you're willing to talk to him."

"Of course I'm willing to talk."

"Then I'll get word to Wilton. Needless to say, Lacy, this has to be handled as delicately as possible. Everyone is scared. They're watching Gritt, and probably Wilton too."

"Do they, whoever they might be, know that Todd Short is back in town?"

"I don't think so. My lawyers met with Short this morning, somewhere far away from the reservation. If he follows through with his promise to recant his testimony, it won't be long before everyone knows it. At that point, he'll be a marked man."

"They can't keep killing people, Junior."

"They killed your buddy Mr. Hatch. And Son and Eileen. And they probably took care of Digger Robles, the other snitch, may he rest in peace."

And not to mention Greg Myers.

He continued, "And they're perfectly willing to let the State of Florida kill me. They'll stop at nothing, Lacy. Don't ever forget that."

"How can I?"

- Salzman and an associate named Fuller arrived just after 1:00 p.m. They were dressed casually in khakis and loafers, a far cry from the dark, pin-striped world of D.C. law. Their firm had a thousand lawyers on all major continents. Its pro bono efforts on behalf of condemned killers were laudatory, even staggering. Lacy had read about the firm online and was astonished at the manpower it threw into the fight against the death penalty.

Their meeting with Todd Short had gone beautifully. The snitch had given a two-hour video deposition in which he admitted being recruited by the police and prosecutor to exchange bogus testimony for leniency and cash. They had found him to be believable and truly remorseful. Junior would always hate the guy who sent him to death row, but he was nonetheless thrilled at his change of heart.

Salzman explained that they would immediately file a petition for post-conviction relief in state court and seek a stay of execution. Once that was in hand, they would slug it out with the Florida Attorney General's Office, and go to federal court if necessary. The flurry of potential litigation was bewildering, to Lacy at least, but Salzman had been through it many times. He was a seasoned expert in the world of habeas corpus, and exuded a confidence that was contagious. His goal was a new trial, one to be held far away from the meddlesome self-interest of Claudia McDover.

29.

The burner Lacy kept in her pocket vibrated early Tuesday morning. Cooley was checking in, if only to inform her that he had not heard from Greg Myers. No surprise there. He also said he had mailed her another prepaid phone and it should arrive later in the morning. When she had it, she was to destroy the one she was holding.

For lunch, she met Allie Pacheco at a sandwich shop near the Capitol. Over a bowl of soup, he relayed the information that the police in Key Largo had sequestered the Conspirator and it was now safely under lock and key. He would meet with them in a day or so and hand over the laptop, courier bag, and backpack. It was their investigation, not his, but the FBI was promising full cooperation. The police were interviewing regulars at the marina, but so far had found no one who had seen anything unusual. With no photo and only a general description of the missing person, and not to mention a cold trail to begin with, finding him seemed virtually impossible.

After a few minutes of business, Pacheco said, "This soup is okay, but what about dinner?"

"Where are we professionally?" she asked.

"Oh, I think we're on solid ground," he said with a smile. "We're certainly on the same team. Ethically, I'm not supposed to hit on chicks who work for the bureau, so we're good to go."

"Chicks?"

"Just a figure of speech. No harm intended. I'm thirty-four years old. I'm guessing you're somewhere in that range. We're both single, and, frankly, it's refreshing to meet a nice woman in real life and not on some dating site. You do the online stuff?"

"Twice, both disasters."

"Oh, I could tell some stories, but I won't bore you. So how about dinner?"

If she said yes, she would do so only because he was nice looking and personable, though a bit cocky, but then she had never met a young FBI agent who wasn't brimming with confidence. She would not say yes because BJC was desperate for help.

"When?" she asked.

"I don't know. Tonight?"

"And what if at some point the bureau gets involved with my little conspiracy? Would that make your boss uncomfortable?"

"You met Luna. He's always uncomfortable; he prefers it. But, no, I see no conflict. Again, we would be working on the same side of the street. Besides, you've already told us everything. There are no secrets, right?"

"There are a lot of secrets. I just don't know them yet."

"And I won't ask. What about your boss?"

"He's a pushover."

"Thought so. I got the impression that when you're in the room you're pretty much in charge. Dinner, nice bottle of wine, hell, maybe even some candles? I'll pick you up at seven, assuming of course your brother is not around."

"He's not."

"Good. What a piece of work."

"Gunther is very protective of his little sister."

"Can't say I blame him. Seven?"

"Seven thirty. And pick a nice place but not something too fancy. Forget the candles. We work for the government and we'll split the check."

"Deal."

- He picked her up in a late-model SUV, one just washed and shined and vacuumed for the occasion. For the first five minutes they talked about cars. Lacy was tired of the rental she'd been driving and ready for a new set of wheels. She loved her old hybrid, but the crash had her thinking of something a bit sturdier. They were heading south, away from downtown.

"You like Cajun food?" he asked.

"Love it."

"Ever been to Johnny Ray's?"

"No, but I've heard it's great."

"Let's try it."

She liked the SUV but found it a bit on the masculine side. She was curious about its cost. Through some quick research she had learned that the current starting salary for a special agent was $52,000. Allie had been with the bureau for five years, so she figured they were earning about the same. He had commented on how nice her apartment was, and said he was sharing one with another agent. Reassignment was a way of life in the bureau, and he was hesitant to buy a place.

They waded through the background pleasantries, though each knew the other had dug through the Internet. He grew up in Omaha; college and law school at Nebraska. Off duty, he had the relaxed easiness of a midwesterner, with a complete lack of pretension. Her undergraduate degree was from William & Mary; law school at Tulane. They found common ground in New Orleans, where he'd spent his first two years with the bureau. Neither really missed the place, too much humidity and crime, though the way they talked about it now they seemed downright homesick. By the time they parked and walked into the restaurant, Lacy was giving the guy high marks on every front. Be cool, she told herself, they always disappoint.

At a quiet corner table, they opened the menus. When the waiter stepped away, she said, "Just a reminder. We're splitting the check."

"Okay, but I would like to pay. After all, I invited you."

"Thanks, but we'll split it." And that was the end of that conversation.

They decided to start with a dozen raw oysters each and agreed on a bottle of Sancerre. When the menus were gone, he said, "So what would you like to talk about?"

She chuckled at his bluntness. "Anything but the case."

"Fair enough. You pick a topic, then I'll pick one. And anything is fair game, anything but the casino and all that."

"That's pretty broad. You go first and let's see how things unwind."

"Okay, I have a great question. And if you don't want to talk about it, I understand. What's it like getting hit with an air bag?"

"I take it you've missed that experience so far."

"Yes, so far."

She took a sip of water and a deep breath. "It's loud, sudden, jolting. One second it's just sitting there, invisible inside the steering wheel, never to be thought about, and a millisecond later it's exploding in your face at two hundred miles an hour. That, along with the impact, knocked me out. Not for very long, because I remember someone moving around the car. After that, I blacked out. The air bag saved my life, but it's a rough way to go. Once is enough."

"I'm sure it is. Have you completely recovered?"

"For the most part. There's still some soreness here and there, but every day is better. I wish my hair would grow faster."

"You're beautiful with short hair."

The wine arrived. Lacy tasted it and approved. They touched glasses and had a drink. "Your turn," he said.

"What? You've had enough of air bags?"

"Just curious. I had a friend who was behind the wheel when he swerved to miss a pedestrian. Instead he hit a utility pole, going about twenty miles an hour. He would've been fine but the air bag banged him around pretty bad. He kept ice packs on his face for a week."

"I prefer to have them. Why'd you go to law school?"

"My father is a lawyer in Omaha and it just seemed like the thing to do. I never thought about changing the world, like most first-year law students; I was just thinking of a nice job. My father has done pretty well, and I actually practiced with him for a year. Got bored real fast and decided it was time to leave Nebraska."

"Why the FBI?"

"Excitement. No eight to five, behind-the-desk routine. When you're chasing crooks-big ones, small ones, smart ones, dumb ones-there aren't too many dull moments. And you? What made you want to investigate judges?"

"Well, it wasn't something I was dreaming about when I started law school. The job market was pretty soft when I graduated, plus I had no desire to do the big-firm routine. They're finally hiring a lot of women, half my class was female, but I didn't want to work a hundred hours a week. I have friends who went that route and they're all miserable. My parents had retired to Florida. I was here and I saw an ad for a job with the Board on Judicial Conduct."

"You interviewed and got the job. What a surprise."

The oysters arrived on platters of ice, and the conversation stopped as they went about the ritual, New Orleans style, of squeezing lemons and adding horseradish to the cocktail sauce. Pacheco gulped his from the shells while Lacy used saltines, both acceptable methods.

He said, "So you visited Junior Mace yesterday."

"I did, for the second time. Ever been to death row?"

"No, but I'm sure I will one day. Anything interesting?"

"Are you fishing for information?"

"Always. I can't help it. It's in my DNA."

"Maybe a tip, a lead, or something. Junior may have information. Mainly, though, I think he just enjoys visitors."

"So you're not going to tell me anything new?"

"No, well, maybe. You've no doubt studied our exhibit detailing his trial and conviction."