18

Hardy left for a lunch meeting, and Wu stayed with Andrew, preparing her witness list, revisiting his alibi, playing devil's advocate for what she guessed would be Brandt's attack at the 707 hearing. It continued to be dispiriting work. Getting information and/or cooperation from Andrew was like pulling teeth without an anesthetic. It was early afternoon by the time they finished.

Ray Cottrell was coming up the hill to the cabins when Wu walked out into the sunshine. He got to the gate a few steps before she did, and held it open for her.

When she thanked him, he took it as an opening. "So how'd it go today?" he asked.

She made a face, shrugged. "All right, I guess."

"Curb your enthusiasm."

"You really want to know, he's pretty depressed."

"He's looking at life in the joint. You'd be depressed, too."

"I guess so." She paused. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You were in court when Andrew wouldn't plead. When he said he didn't do it? Well, that's what's got him looking at life without."

"Okay. What's the question?"

She considered her phrasing. "You pretty much know how things work up here. You've seen a lot of these kids. I'm thinking Andrew's got a lock on an eight-year top; he's got to take it. He doesn't understand that whatever the actual truth is, it looks like he did it. Almost any jury is going to find him guilty. I don't understand why he can't see he can still get out of this. Johnson might still take a plea. Andrew doesn't have to be looking at life."

"He probably thinks it matters that he's innocent. If he is."

She shook her head, frustrated. "That's so not the point."

"He probably thinks it is."

"Well, that's my question. Why can't he see it isn't? What matters is playing it to your best advantage. There's a system here, a way that it works, and it's not going to work to let him out. So he should take the best deal they offer, right? Is it only because I'm a lawyer that I see that so clearly?"

Cottrell stared off somewhere behind her. "Maybe."

"Okay. But look," she said, "even if he's in fact innocent, he could take the plea and his dad could buy a team of private investigators who might find something that could get him out."

" 'Might' and 'could.' Not exactly a lock. Eight years, a kid his age, it's the rest of his life. You ask how he feels, he just wants to get back out. He doesn't care how it works."

She set her jaw. "Here's how it works, Ray. There's one rule. Maybe you could help Andrew with it if you two talk."

"What's that?"

"You listen to your lawyer. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you're better off."

"But there's that one," Cottrell said. "If you think the one chance where you're not better off happens to be you, it's hard to take."

"You still play the odds. You deal with it."

For a second, he seemed almost angry with her view of it. But then he shrugged. "Or not," he said. "Anyway, it looks like you're feeling better today."

The reference took her a minute. "Oh. Than yesterday?" She broke a smile. "I always feel better than I did yesterday. That was the low point of my life."

"That's good news then."

"The low point of my life? How's that?"

"It's behind you. Everything's better from now on."

"That's a nice way to look at it." She paused, then added, "Though I may never drink again."

"Darn," he clucked with disappointment. "I was going to ask if I could buy you a drink sometime."

The comment stopped her cold. Glancing quickly up into the pockmarked face, she cocked her head, sighed as though she meant it. "I'm flattered, Ray," she said, "I really am. But I've got a policy about seeing people with whom I have a professional relationship. I've found it's just not a good idea."

"Sure," he said, "No sweat. It's cool."

"I'm sorry. I really am. It's nothing personal at all."

"No," he said. "Why would it be?" He pointed at the cabins. "Well, I've got to get in to work. See you around."

If she thought cabs were few and far between downtown, they were an endangered species up here on the hill. Now she waited at the corner of Market, berating herself for more stupidity, being friendly to the bailiff. But again, her actions had been misinterpreted. This was becoming a goddamn trend. She was tired of it.

No cab.

She checked her watch. Quarter to two. She'd been standing here for nearly fifteen minutes. She should have called and ordered one. Now she reached down into her briefcase, pulled out her cellphone, flipped it open. Suddenly a purple PT Cruiser pulled up to the curb. She stepped back as the window came down. Brandt was leaning over. "I couldn't help but notice you standing here when I left the building five minutes ago. Are you waiting for somebody? Where are you going?"

"Downtown."

"Me, too. You want a lift?" He pushed open the passenger door. "Professional courtesy," he said.

She started to hesitate, then realized she was being foolish. She could take a ride downtown with him.

Ray Cottrell was outside on guard duty, watching an inmate basketball game. The court was on the far side of the cabins, at the highest point of the grounds. The fence, topped with more razor wire, ran along a ridge that fell off in about a hundred-foot cliff to Market Street, just below.

He turned around for a minute and happened to see something familiar in the woman standing on the corner down there. Squinting in the bright sun, he moved to the closest spot on the court for a better look. It was her, all right.

Uptight lawyers. He should have known.

"I don't see people with whom I have a professional relationship."

But still, he watched her. Even at this distance, she was a lot easier to look at than anything else he was likely to see today. All dressed up today, but yesterday with the jeans and sweater, he'd seen what she packed under that business suit.

Man.

The basketball slammed into the fence a foot in front of him, rattling the chain link, maybe one of the players noticing he didn't have his eye on them, taking the opportunity to shake him up a little. He shot a glance at the court, everybody getting a kick out of making him jump.

He ignored them, looked back down for another glimpse of Wu. Still there.

Then suddenly, he saw Jason Brandt's car- no mistaking it, that yup-pie piece of shit- pull up from around the corner, come to a stop in front of her. Cottrell watching as she steps back, talks into the passenger-ride window. The door opens, she gets in.

She doesn't see people with whom she has a professional relationship, does she?

Cunt, he thought.

For the first several blocks, neither of them spoke. Finally, Brandt said, "So where's your car?"

"Back at the office. I drove up this morning with Mr. Hardy, but he had a meeting. I told him I'd get a cab."

"We don't see too many cabs up here."

"I noticed."

They went another block in silence.

Brandt finally broke it. "So what did your boss want?"

"To meet Andrew. He's coming on second chair."

Brandt threw a look across the seat. "You okay with that?"

"We didn't vote on it." She forced a small laugh. "I haven't exactly impressed him at every turn, you must admit."

He didn't comment.

After a minute, she said, "Anyway, I've been distracted."

Again, he looked over. She was looking straight ahead, her big briefcase lying flat on her lap, her hand clasped and resting on it. "You might as well know that my dad died a few months ago. I guess I haven't been myself."

"I'm sorry," he said. "You should have told me when…" The words stopped.

"Yeah. Well, it's not the kind of thing you talk about when you're getting picked up. Especially if you think it's why you're letting yourself get picked up."

He let that thought hang in the air between them for a minute. "You could have told me," he repeated.

"Maybe," she said. "But I didn't want to find out."

"Find out what?"

"If you'd want to deal with baggage."

"Yeah, I try to avoid that at all costs."

"Me, too."

"As you said, we're the same." After a moment, he reached out his hand across the seat. "Friends?" he said. "Tentatively."

She gave it a second, then nodded. "Okay," she said. "I guess so."

They shook on it.