"First off, Hugh, my boy, we're not going to impart any information even of threats and intimidation to the opposition. Weakens us.

Stengthens them. Right?" He reached for another cigarette, replacing the one that he'd neglected.

He lit this, then blew out a long, narrow stream of smoke, which he watched as it hung in the air.

"Please, Tommy, if you will. A complete description of everything that you saw and did after Hugh left your side.

And, if you can, re-create every conversation word for word.

To the best of your memory…"

Tommy nodded. Taking his time, using every bit of recollection he had, he painstakingly retraced all his steps of the previous night. Hugh leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, concentrating, as if he were absorbing everything Tommy said. Pryce kept his eyes raised to the ceiling, and he leaned back on his chair, the wooden slats creaking as he rocked slightly.

When Tommy finished, he looked over at the older Englishman, who stopped rocking and leaned forward. For just an instant, the weak light filtering through the grimy window gave him a dark and shadowy appearance, like a man rising from bed after an intimacy with death.

Then, as abruptly, this cadaverous look dissipated, and the angular, almost academic appearance returned, accompanied by a wry and engaged smile.

"Yankee these nocturnal visitors called you, you say?"

"Yes."

"How intriguing. What an interesting choice of words. Did you detect any other obvious southernisms about their language?

A slow, sibilant drawl, perhaps, or some other, colorful contraction, like a y'all or an aren't that would support the geographical impression?"

"There was a y'all," Tommy replied.

"But they whispered.

A whisper can sometimes hide inflection and accent."

Pryce nodded.

"Most true. But the word Yankee does not, correct? It immediately leads one in a most obvious direction, true?"

"Yes. Another northerner would never use that word. Nor would someone from the Midwest or West."

"The word prompts assumptions. Draws one inevitably to conclusions.

Makes one think clearly in a certain' manner does it not?"

Tommy smiled at his friend.

"It does, indeed, Phillip. It does indeed. And what you're suggesting is?"

Pryce sneezed loudly, but looked up with a grin.

"Well," he said slowly, relishing each word as he launched himself forward.

"My experience is much the same as Hugh's. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it will be the unfortunate lumberjack who has committed the apparently clear-cut brutality.

Usually what is obvious is also true…"

He paused, still letting his smile wander around his face, curling up the corners of his mouth, lifting his eyebrows, crinkling his chin.

"… But there is always that one in a hundred situation.

And I distrust words and language that prompt one to conclusions instead of the more solid world of facts."

Pryce rose from his seat and moved across the room, as if abruptly driven by ideas. He opened a small chest made from an empty parcel box and removed tea and cups.

"Phillip," Tommy said, feeling a sense of relief for the first time that morning, "you sly dog. You're driving at something.

What is it?"

"No. No. Not quite yet," Pryce replied, almost cackling.

"I think I shall not speculate further until I know more. Tommy, my dear boy, throw another fagot on the stove, let us have tea. I have prepared some notes for you that should help you with procedural matters to come. I have also suggested some avenues of inquiry…"

Pryce hesitated, then added, instantly dropping the humor from the edges of his words, adopting a seriousness that weighted them in

Tommy's mind: "The next few hours will be critical, I suspect. More will happen that influences this case. Watch your client carefully when he is released. Hugh, rely on your own instincts. I think it would be wise for all of us if we could fix in our own minds a settled belief in Lieutenant Scott's denial."

Both men nodded. Pryce took a deep breath.

"Belief is an odd thing for a defense counsel, Tommy. It is not necessary to believe in your client to defend him. Some would say that it is easier to not truly have an opinion, that the maneuverings of the law are only clouded by the emotions of trust and honesty. But this situation is not one that lends itself, I think, to the usual interpretations. In our case, to defend Lieutenant Scott, I think you must subscribe wholeheartedly to his innocence, no matter how difficult he makes that achievement. Of course, with this belief goes greater responsibility.

His life will truly be in your hands."

Tommy nodded.

"I will search for the truth when I see him," he said, rather portentously, which caused Phillip Pryce to smile again, like a headmaster at a boys' school slightly bemused by the over eagerness but undeniable sincerity of his charges.

"I think we're some ways from discovering truths, Tommy lad. But it would be wise to start hunting for them. Lies are always easier to find than truths. Perhaps we can exhume a few of those."

"Will do," Tommy replied.

"Ah, that's the Red, White, and Blue, All-American attitude.

Thank God for that."

Pryce coughed and laughed, then he turned to the younger men.

"And Tommy, Hugh, one further thing. A critical thing, I think."

"What is it?"

"Find the spot where Trader Vic was murdered. The location will speak loudly."

"I'm not sure how."

"You will find it by doing what a true advocate must do to truly understand his case."

"What is that?"

"Put yourself into the hearts and minds of everyone involved.

The murdered man. The accused. And do not neglect the men who stand in judgment. For there may be many reasons that buttress the prosecution of a case, and many reasons a verdict is delivered, and it is critical that before that event takes place, you understand completely and utterly all the forces at work so diligently."

Tommy nodded.

Pryce reached for a teapot and grandly swished it in the air to determine if it was filled with water, then plopped it on top of the old cast-iron stove.

"Hugh's famous lumberjack may be sitting on the floor with a discharged gun in his lap and reeking from alcohol.

But who gave him the gun? And who poured him the drink?

And who called him a name, prompting the fight? And, more important, who truly stands to lose or gain by the death of the poor sod lying on the barroom floor?"

Pryce smiled again, grinning at both Renaday and Hart.

"All the forces. Tommy. All the forces."

He paused, then added, "My goodness, I haven't had this much fun since that damnable Messerschmidt got us in his sights. Tea ready, Hugh?"

For a moment, the older man's smile flickered, as he added, "Of course, probably young Mr.

Scott fails to find all this quite so intriguing as I do."

"Probably not," Tommy said.

"Because I still think they mean to kill him."

"That's the bloody problem with war," Hugh Renaday muttered as he tended to the teapot and the chipped, white ceramic mugs.

"There's always some right nasty bastard out there trying to kill you.

Who wants a spot of milk?"

The guard outside Lieutenant Lincoln Scott's cooler cell let the two fliers in without a word. It was closing in on noon, though the interior of the cell made it seem more like the gray of the hour just after dawn. Tommy assumed that Scott's pseudo-release order would be processed soon, but he thought it would be more interesting to question Scott when he was still in the unsettled state that the isolation and starkness of the cooler created. He said as much to Hugh, who'd nodded and replied: "Let's let me take a whack at him. The old provincial policeman's dull but sturdy approach, perhaps?"