At the courthouse the next morning, I got my ten minutes with Tina—five minutes after getting her file. It didn't take long to figure out I held a "dummy file," something to show she was charged with a new offense, with nothing in the way of meaningful information. No police report, no school records, no intake forms—nothing. I entered my appearance for Tina at the hearing and flew by the seat of my pants with what little I had.

In a quick conversation with ASA Ellen Martinez beforehand, I'd been able to find out that the softball bat found next to Shanae Jackson's body had belonged to Tina and had Tina's prints on it, as well as Shanae's blood. A neighbor had also overheard Shanae and Tina arguing on the day Shanae died and other occasions. Since our last meeting, Martinez had been in touch with Frank Powell and some of Tina's teachers. Martinez learned about Tina's deteriorating attendance and disciplinary record. I noticed she didn't mention the Pussy Posse and wondered if she was holding it for later or if she wanted to check the veracity of the information before raising it in court. The prosecution had five days after I entered my appearance to disclose in discovery their evidence against Tina. I'd have to wait and see if the matter came up then.

I made all the arguments I could for house arrest and electronic monitoring. Despite my best efforts, the master refused to release Tina to her father. William Jackson stated that Fisher wasn't fit as a parent, only to have the master tell him Tina wouldn't be released anyway. The master said Jackson would have to file a petition if he wanted to fight with Rodney Fisher over his parental rights. Fisher yelled that it would be a cold day in hell when Jackson took his little girl from him. Things went downhill from there, and the bailiff removed Jackson from the courtroom. In so many words, the master told Fisher to behave or get thrown out, then he finished announcing his ruling: Tina was to remain in custody pending trial.

I put a hand on Tina's arm. "I'll request a review of the decision. Meanwhile, hang in there. I'll be by to see you as soon as I can." She wouldn't even look at me before they led her off.

With a sigh, I packed my briefcase. While I was in the neighborhood, I considered going by Ray Mardovich's office. The thought of airing a few grievances was both tempting and humiliating. My humiliation won out. I made a beeline for the door.

*****

I was heading back to the office when my cell started vibrating. I never drive and take calls at the same time—and I would like to personally crucify every idiot I see driving with a phone pressed to their ear—so I pulled over to check the number. It was Walt.

"Where've you been?" I asked. "I need to tell you about my road trip this weekend."

"I've been up to my ass in alligators," he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. "The shit has hit the fan."

"What now?"

"Sondra Jones is dead. One of the office cleaning crew found her Friday night, shot in her office."

"You're kidding."

"Do I sound like I'm kidding?"

"Tell me this has no connection to the embezzlement and our client."

Walt was silent.

"Walt, you're not telling me what I want to hear."

"And I'm not hearing what you want to hear. Robbery wasn't the motive. Her purse was there, money and credit cards in her wallet. To make matters worse ... I don't want to talk about this on the phone. We need to meet. How soon can you be at my office?"

"Give me twenty minutes."

*****

When I got to Walt's, I gave him a quick rundown on the weekend before we turned our attention to Jones's death.

"The good news is," Walt said, "our client hasn't been implicated in this. Not yet."

"Thank God. The way you were talking—"

"Hold on, I haven't given you the bad news. Brad found the body before the cleaning crew."

"He found it? And didn't report it?"

"He said he was scared. He was supposed to meet Jones to discuss his employment status and the audit. It was after business hours and no one else was there. When he saw the body, he freaked and ran. He didn't want to get involved."

"Great. Now what? As far as Brad and the audit and all."

"I don't know. We should touch base with Hirschbeck on that."

"If he's as informative as he was last time, it'll be a short conversation. Anything else you need right now? Just so you know, I have another murder to defend." I filled him in briefly on Tina's case.

"If they do arrest Brad, I can be there for the questioning," Walt said. "I could use your help with fact-finding, identifying witnesses and so forth. Finding out who else was there that night and why anyone might have a motive to kill Jones."

"How about the real embezzler?" I asked. "Jones was an outsider. Her push for an audit might have threatened the actual embezzler. Since Brad knew he was under suspicion, I don't think he would have done it. He'd have to know he'd be a logical murder suspect."

"Sure," Walt grumbled. "If he was thinking logically at the time."

"Good point," I said. "Still, it's all the more reason to push Hirschbeck on getting this audit done." I paused before adding, "Assuming, of course, the audit clears him."

Walt raised his eyebrows, then said, "Yeah." I was trying to think of something reassuring to say, when the phone rang. Walt picked it up. "Yeah . . . . Yes . . . . Okay, where are you?" There was a long pause, during which Walt nodded and grunted repeatedly. "Okay, okay. I'll be right there. Don't say anything more 'til I get there."

He hung up. "That was Brad. Scratch what I just said about our client not being implicated." He pawed around on his desk and scooped up a legal pad and a pen.

"He's been arrested?"

"Not arrested, but held for questioning at CID. You know what that means."

"It means I've got to get to work. I guess someone must have spilled about Brad's meeting with Jones."

"Lobby security camera. Has him coming in the building's front door at 6:25 P.M. Right in the window of time they think she died."

*****

I returned to the office and put in a call to Hirschbeck, leaving a message with him to call back ASAP. I checked my mail. Still no sign of the answers to interrogatories in the wretched divorce case. I had, however, received another, slightly better, offer to settle Dancer Daria's slip-and-fall. The offer still stunk, but I stuck a copy in an envelope to mail to my client, out of obligation more than anything else. As for the interrogatories, it was time to file that motion to compel discovery. Between fighting for Tina's release, looking for evidence to keep Brad out of the slammer and forcing Slippery Steve to provide discovery information in the Divorce from Hell, I had plenty to keep me occupied.

While I was working, Hirschbeck called back.

"Your client's not going to get away with killing Sondra," he blurted. "The audit will take place."

"He's innocent until proved otherwise, Lenny. You do remember that much from law school, right?"

"We should have known this might happen." He continued to rant, as if I hadn't said a thing. "I should have insisted on being at that meeting."

"Who else knew about their meeting?"

"Why, our president and the department heads. They were all concerned about the audit and Sondra told them she was going to meet Brad and answer any questions. Clarify his situation, so to speak."

"You mean, let him know if he still had a job, while your company was dragged, kicking and screaming, through this audit."

"Now who's jumping to conclusions?"

"I'm just wondering why it's taking so long to get the show on the road. I mean, here you are, a small company owned by a large conglomerate. Things are running smoothly. No one from headquarters is bothering your operation and, suddenly, whoops! Turns out someone's been stealing from the till. You try to resolve the situation yourself and end up pointing the finger at Brad Higgins, who looks good for it, based on circumstantial evidence. When the big boys in Philly find out what's going down, they send Jones in to straighten things out and maybe get you guys to toe the company line. People start to feel threatened. Could be a motive for murder, yes?"

Silence at the other end. For a moment, I thought Hirschbeck had hung up.

"You should be more careful what you say," he growled.

"As should you. And, if I were you, I'd get that audit done—and fast. You should also have someone take a look at your computers, because I have reason to believe the accounts payable records have been tampered with. You need to take a closer look at who it is you're representing and how they're operating. It's quite possible that you're shielding an embezzler and a killer, and you don't even know it."

His heavy breathing told me he was still there, but not happy.

"Len," I said. "You should know that it doesn't pay to take shortcuts or turn a blind eye to the truth. I would have expected that you learned something since you cheated on that evidence exam. Maybe I wasn't doing the profession any favors by keeping that to myself."

"This isn't the same. I'm not the same." His voice was ragged and gruff. "I'm just trying to do my job."

"And you can't do it well if you refuse to find out what your client is up to."

"Don't you get all high and mighty on me. How closely did you look at your clients at the PD's office? Are you going to tell me every one of them was innocent? Keep your opinions to yourself."

A loud click told me he'd had enough. I sighed and hung up.

*****

The next day, while at the courthouse in Upper Marlboro to file my motions, I decided to drop off a copy of the motion in Tina's case at the State's Attorney's Office.

I spotted Ellen Martinez in the hallway, caught up with her, and pressed the copy into her hand.

"Hi," I said. "I'm contesting Tina Jackson's pre-trial detention. Thanks for saving me the stamp."

"I'm glad to see you. Do you have a minute?"

"Um, sure." Why did she seem so glad to see me? It was probably too much to hope that they'd found another suspect and were dropping the charges.

Martinez, who was her usual cool, immaculately turned out self, in a gray sheath and matching jacket, escorted me to a small conference room. She asked me to wait for five minutes. I took a seat at the long conference table. She returned and sat at the head of the table, crossing her legs in that self-possessed way of hers. Without fanfare, Martinez said, "Given the brutal nature of the crime, your client's possible association with a gang, and some other factors, we're going to ask that Tina be tried as an adult."

I sat a moment, not sure how to respond. I couldn't say it was a complete surprise, but I had hoped it could be avoided.

"If the court approves your request, doesn't that mean she'll be moved to the adult jail?"

Martinez nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Is that really necessary? She's already scared to death to be where she is."

"Your client is manipulating you, Sam. She's not an innocent little girl."

"I know she's a tough kid, but she's still a kid."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid it's out of my hands."

The door opened and my former paramour, Ray Mardovich, walked in. The sight of him hit me like a punch in the gut. For a moment, I couldn't move. I stared at him and felt my chest tighten.

"Sam, you know Ray, of course," Martinez said, oblivious to how I glared at him.

Ray wouldn't make eye contact. He sat across from me, looking a bit worn around the edges. He seemed to have aged significantly over the last three months. The lines on his face were more deeply etched and his hair was more gray than brown. Having a tough time keeping up with your little girlfriend?

Ray straightened his tie, as if to show he meant business. "Assuming we prevail on our request, which I'm confident we will, I'll be prosecuting the case."

I kept quiet. Martinez coughed and rose. "Excuse me," she said, and without further explanation, left.

"So," Ray said. "You . . . look good."

"Cut the crap, Ray. I know about Amy."

To his credit, he blushed. "Yes, I suppose that was bound to come out eventually."

I had so many questions I wanted to ask, I didn't know where to start.

"Bound to come out? What were you waiting for? An engraved invitation to tell me?"

He shrugged, looking sheepish. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"Well, you did." My words underscored the shame I already felt. I thought about Ray's wife and how she had a legal right to feel hurt.

Ray stammered. "I know you're angry. Can we not make this about us?"

"I'm not mad." I spat the words. Affecting an offhand tone, I said, "I guess I just never gave you credit. Imagine having the energy for two extramarital affairs at once. That's amazing for a guy your age. You on Viagra?"

Ray shot me a withering look. "I'm not that old," he said, in an obvious bid to lighten the mood.

Old enough to be her father—almost. Again, I kept my mouth shut.

"Never mind all that," I snapped. "We have business to discuss."

Ray's shoulders relaxed and relief washed over his face.

"Let's start with why you want to try my client as an adult."

"Well, it's a brutal crime." Ray leaned back in his seat, as if settling into a hammock on a summer day. "And your client has possible connections to a girl gang."

"Possible connections. So you don't know for sure."

"We have reason to suspect she's connected to a gang."

"Based on what?"

"We know about the fight at school and her association with Rochelle Watson. We know the rumors about Rochelle. Of course, there's also the pending matter of that purse-snatching. We see these things as possibly being connected."

"Even if it were true—and I'm not saying it is—that doesn't mean Tina would kill her mother."

"No, but it might make Tina more likely to be violent toward her. We know there was a history of animosity—even physical abuse—between the two."

"What about Tina's father, Rodney Fisher?"

"What about him?"

"Shanae Jackson was going to seek additional child support from him, based on income he supposedly wasn't reporting to the IRS. Wouldn't that make him a pretty likely suspect?"

Ray stared off at a spot over my shoulder. "He'd have to be one cold-ass father. To beat his child's mother to death, then leave the bat at the scene to set her up. His own daughter? Why wouldn't he just shoot Shanae and ditch the gun?"

Well, some people can be pretty cold. About a lot of things. I forced myself to stay on point and respond in a businesslike manner.

"Maybe he didn't plan it. Maybe he came over and they argued and it just happened."

He frowned. "I suppose it's possible, but what about the fingerprints?"

"It was Tina's softball bat. Of course her prints were on it. The killer probably wore gloves."

"That sounds like planning to me. This looks unplanned—like a crime committed in the heat of rage. And it's hard to argue with the forensic evidence. Even if it was her bat, there were no other prints on it, except Shanae's. Oh, and there's a witness—"

"Yes, the argument on the day Shanae Jackson died. Ellen told me the neighbor overheard."

"Did she tell you that same neighbor saw someone she thought might be Tina leaving the house around the time of the murder?"

My heart sank, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. Was this another small detail Tina had lied to me about? "Really? What time was that, by the way?"

"The ME tells me she was probably killed between six and eight that night. Here." He handed me some papers. I shuffled through them. They included Tina's intake papers (essentially, a juvenile version of an arrest report), a preliminary autopsy report, and the neighbor's statement.

"It was dark, of course," Ray said. "So the neighbor didn't get a good look at the face, but she could see it was a light-skinned black kid, very thin and about Tina's height."

"So it wasn't a positive ID," I said.

"Right now, we have Tina's fingerprints on the murder weapon, no forced entry by the killer and someone who looked a lot like Tina leaving the house around the time of the killing." He stood up. "That, plus the history of bad blood and neglect and possible gang associations make Tina look good for this, I'm afraid." He glanced at his watch and turned toward the door.

"Wait!" I called, jumping to my feet and walking toward him.

He looked at me, and I could feel my heart melt. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he shook his head as I approached him. I could feel the electricity running between us.

"Sam, we can't—"

Before he could get the words out, I hauled off and hit him. I'd meant for it to be a slap, but somewhere along the line, my hand had balled into a fist.

The fist struck his nose and mouth so hard, we both yelped. I shook out my hand, pain coursing up my arm. Ray covered his nose with both hands, a wounded look in his eyes.

"You son of a bitch! That's twice you've hurt me." With that, I kicked him in the groin. Grimacing, he doubled over, fell to his knees and gasped.

I gathered my things and left without saying goodbye. I figured it went without saying.

As I strode down the hall, I realized how much my own actions supported his argument about how people act in the heat of anger. Anger I was forced to acknowledge now.

So much for keeping things businesslike.