“Warren, this is Bennie Rosato. How are you?” Bennie stalled.

“The Bennie Rosato? I know all about you. I admire the work you’ve done in civil rights. I saw you speak last year at the Public Interest Law Center. You were amazing. In fact, I help out at the moot court program at Penn and we were hoping you’d judge it this year. The committee is sending you the invitation.”

“I’d be honored,” Bennie said, then took a deep breath. “That’s not what I’m calling about, Warren. A client of yours, Alice Connolly, has contacted me and asked me to represent her.”

“We know that. We’re objecting.”

“What? You can’t object.”

“We’re opposing, then.”

“You can’t do that either.”

“Well, we… intend to continue our representation.”

“Who’s ‘we’? And why?” Confounded, Bennie reached for her coffee, but there wasn’t any. “And how do you know she contacted me?”

“Jemison has represented Ms. Connolly for a year. She’s our client.”

“Warren, I don’t get it. You want to keep this case? Are you even a criminal lawyer?”

“I attended Yale Law School, where I was a member of the Law Review. My comment, a review of current search and seizure law, was the most requested reprint last year.”

“Last year? Are you a first-year associate?”

“I’ve already taken several depositions and I’ve had an arbitration. Ms. Connolly is a client of Jemison, Crabbe, and we’re retaining the representation.”

“We’re talking about someone’s life here, Warren.” Bennie’s bewilderment turned to anger. “You’ve had two consultations with the client in one year on a capital murder case. That’s ineffectiveness per se. Have you notified the malpractice carrier? You’re an insurance lawyer, aren’t you?”

“That’s just my specialty, one of the services offered by Jemison, Crabbe,” Miller said, but Bennie could hear his tone stiffen. She imagined him sitting as straight as anybody without a backbone could.

“How did you get on the homicide list anyway, child?”

“There’s no need for that. The captain of our trial team is a former district attorney, Henry Burden. He receives many court appointments. I’ll be trying the case with his guidance.”

“Aha, so Burden is the one on the homicide list and he’s delegated this case to you, is that it?” Still, Bennie couldn’t understand it. Henry Burden was going to prop the kid up in a major trial, but she couldn’t see why. “Look, Warren, I don’t know what your problem is and I don’t care. I’ve already asked Judge Guthrie for an emergency hearing on the continuance. We’ll slug it out in court. You up?”

“I… guess so.”

“Lock and load. I’m looking forward to it.” Bennie hung up the phone and didn’t wait a beat before getting up. Now she had one more battle on her hands and no time for any of it. She left her office, strode to Mary DiNunzio’s, and slipped into the cloth chair across from the associate’s pristine desk. Bennie needed a bright, resourceful lawyer, and it didn’t hurt that Mary had an identical twin, whom Bennie had met last year.

“Bennie!” DiNunzio said, startled, sitting at her computer keyboard. She was on the short side, well built, with dirty blond hair. Her makeup was simple, and her navy-blue suit modest and smart. Despite her professional appearance, DiNunzio always looked vaguely nervous to Bennie, who tried to put her at ease.

“I thought I’d visit you, instead of having you in my office.” Bennie scanned the small office. The desk was clean, devoid of pictures or stand-up calendars. Leather-bound hornbooks stood in a straight-edged row on the bookshelves. Red accordion files were arranged alphabetically on the top of the credenza. An antique quilt hung on the wall, its patchwork colors the only disorder in the room. “Nice quilt,” Bennie said.

“Thanks.”

“Enough small talk?”

DiNunzio smiled. “Yes.”

“Good. How busy are you?”

“I’m in the middle of a Third Circuit brief in Samels. It’s due on Friday, and I have another motion due to Judge Dalzell in Marvell.”

“They’re writing assignments. You got any trials?”

“No.”

“Arbitrations or hearings? Any stand-up time at all?”

“Not recently.”

“You’re starting to sound like a big-firm lawyer. You want trial experience, don’t you? I thought that was the reason you and Carrier came here.”

“It was. I just haven’t felt… ready.” DiNunzio colored slightly, and Bennie felt a guilty pang. The associate had been lying low after the Steere case. Not that Bennie blamed her, but it was time to get back on the horse.

“You’re ready, Mary. I wouldn’t ask you to do more than you could. You want to be a trial lawyer, don’t you?”

“Yes,” DiNunzio answered quickly, though she had spent most of the morning thinking of new careers. She could be a cat-sitter, a pastry chef, a teacher. Daydreaming about other jobs had become her full-time job. Somebody had to do it. “Sure, I want to be a trial lawyer.”

“Then you can’t keep doing clerk work, can you?”

“No,” Mary answered, though clerk work sounded fine to her. Law clerks never left the library, which cut down significantly on the opportunities for them to sleuth around or get shot at. Clerk work sounded great, even without dental. “I’d love a new case.”

So Bennie began to explain the case, and Mary tried not to panic.

The computer lab at the prison was a shoebox of thick cinderblock, windowless and painted the standard washed-out gray. Inmates sat at the counter of computers and bent over the smudgy keyboards. Alice stood behind them as they powered up the ancient machines, since her gig was to teach computer technology. To Alice, anybody who would give up dealing smoke for word processing needed a course in economics, not computer tech.

A guard stood at the door, his arms linked behind his back, but for the first time it didn’t bother Alice. In the upper corners of the room hung large curved mirrors that hid the surveillance cameras, but even they didn’t bug her anymore. Rosato had called and said to expect an emergency hearing today. Things were starting to happen on her case and happen fast. She was on her way out of this hellhole. Good fucking bye.

Alice folded her arms in satisfaction over the V-neck of her blue cotton top. Navy-blue pants hung loosely on her thin frame, ending in white Keds she’d bought at the shop. Keds had the lowest street-status in the joint, but Alice didn’t give a shit about the things the inmates cared about. One of them had been caught after a family visit trying to smuggle a pair of Air Jordans in her bra. Shouldn’ta pumped it up,Alice had cracked.

“This computer ain’t workin’!” an inmate called out from the seat nearest the door.

Alice ignored the outburst. She had a rule against calling out but the inmates called out all the time. They couldn’t follow basic rules, yet they were supposed to master Microsoft Word.

“Hey, I said, my computer ain’t workin’,” repeated the inmate. It was Shetrell Harting, the leader of the Crips, in a blue do-rag.

Alice pretended not to hear her. She didn’t like Shetrell. Shetrell made her own rules.

“Piece a shit!” Shetrell shouted, and suddenly slapped her monitor with a loud thwap! The monitor wobbled on its base, and the other blue do-rags laughed. The red do-rags frowned, and the Muslims, their heads covered in short white keemar, suffered in holier-than-thou silence. They were all dummies to Alice, who walked over to save Shetrell’s skinny ass.

“You gotta problem?” Alice asked, and Shetrell’s bandanna pivoted angrily around. Her face was long and angular, junkie-bony, and her skin was the color of light coffee, bringing out the jarring green of her eyes. Shetrell was in for dealing rock and had kept the business going on the inside, making a bundle because there was less competition. Alice could have taken Shetrell, with her better-organized operation, but she didn’t want to do business with a murder rap over her head.