“No. About teaching.”

“I said, I’ve taught libel law, on one of your… panels.” Bennie omitted the “dumb” as a goodwill gesture.

“Did you apply for your credits from the panel, for teaching?”

“I get credits for teaching? I didn’t know that.”

“It’s often overlooked.”

Bennie’s heart leapt up. “I overlooked it!”

“If you can let me have the course name and number, I can determine how many credits are due you and apply them to your delinquency.”

“Hang on.” She was already tearing backward through her Week-At-A-Glance and stopped in February. “On February eleventh, at two o’clock. The course title was Prior Restraints: Harness or Handcuffs? Who names these courses anyway?”

Click, click, click. “I’m showing that that seminar was substantive and also encompassed an ethics session. You were entitled to two credits as a result of teaching that course. If you can prove you taught it, you will be entitled to the credits, bringing your licensing requirements current.”

“I taught it, I swear, Mr. Hutchins. I’ll fax you an affidavit right away. In the meantime, you’ll reinstate my license, right? I need that license.”

“Reinstatement should take some time.”

“Not in this case it shouldn’t. Somebody screwed up, big-time, and it stinks. Unless you want me to make a very high-profile inquiry, you’ll reinstate me effective immediately.”

“Did you retain your course materials?”

“My course materials?” Bennie scanned her office bookshelves for the characteristic yellow binders. She didn’t see them anywhere, but they had to be there. “Yes, I have them right in front of me.”

“Does it show your name as a speaker?”

She rustled some papers on her desk. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Then Xerox the title page and fax it to this office, to my attention.” Click, click, click. “I’ll temporarily reinstate you pending receipt of those materials.”

“Bless you,” Bennie said, and hung up the phone with relief. Now all she had to do was find the course book. She hit the white intercom button on her phone for salvation, and Marshall picked up.

“Back in business?”

“Only if I find some course materials. They’re in my office somewhere. Rescue me, would you?”

Ten minutes later, Marshall was still rooting through the bookshelves for the course materials, tossing onto the dhurrie rug everything she thought should be thrown away. The shelves were empty and the rug was full. “We should have all of these materials centralized,” she grumbled.

“Yes, we should.”

“In the library, not the lawyers’ offices.”

“I quite agree.” At her desk, Bennie was ransacking the lawyers’ listings in the Yellow Pages to identify the lawyer in the art student’s sketch. She flipped through grainy photographs of lawyers perched on desks and holding fancy pens. Thank God lawyers had started advertising. How else could you find the murderers?

“You can’t find anything in here. This is disgusting.”

“I know.” Bennie closed the Yellow Pages, shoved the thick book aside, and reached for her marbleized legal directory.

“Why don’t you clean up or at least let me do it?”

“I’m a maverick, a renegade. The kind of gal who colors outside the lines.” Bennie cracked the legal directory. “My clients expect a messy office.”

“Nobody likes a pig.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Marshall.” She skimmed the legal directory. None of the faces in the photos matched the pencil sketch. The phone rang on Bennie’s desk and she picked it up. “Rosato.”

“What’s up, doc?” said a man’s voice on the other end, and Bennie grinned.

“Sammy!” It was Sam Freminet, the tax lawyer who was her oldest friend. He had started with her at Grun amp; Chase and had remained, becoming a partner. “You get my fax?”

“Yes. He’s hot. Is he single?”

“Stop fooling around. Do you know him? He’s a lawyer somewhere in town. I need to ID him for a murder case.”

“You’re back doing murder cases? Why didn’t I know that? Sufferin’ succotash. You don’t write, you don’t call.”

“I’ll fill you in when the dust settles. Listen, I sent the fax to everyone I know and I’m striking out all over. Do you recognize him?”

“He looks like Elmer Fudd, with that chin.”

“You’re no help. I gotta go. Call you later,” Bennie said, and hung up. She glanced at her watch. 11:45. Damn. She couldn’t spend much more time on this, not with the other things she had to do.

“Here it is!” Marshall said. “I found it!” She held out a yellow paper-covered book, and Bennie scrambled out from behind her desk to look.

“You sure? Does it show my name?”

“Yes.” Their heads bent over the book and they found Bennie’s name at the same time. Marshall gestured to the papers covering the rug. “I’ll fax this to Hutchins if you let me throw that mess out.”

“No, I need that mess.”

“It’s trash.”

“It’s essential.”

“Then forget it.” Marshall stuck the course materials under her arm and a brochure sailed to the floor. She bent over to pick it up and her smooth brow furrowed. “Who gives these legal education courses? Professors?”

“No. Practitioners, other lawyers.”

“Isn’t this the lawyer you’re looking for?”

“What?” Bennie took the slick brochure from Marshall’s outstretched hand. Accounting for Attorneys was its title and under the course description was a thumbnail photo of the instructor. The eyes, the face, and the cleft chin were the same as the pencil sketch. Lyman J. Bullock, Esq., read the caption, and next to it, Bullock amp; Sabard, Attorneys-At-Law.

Bennie reached for the telephone.

Alice was waiting in line to use the telephone. In the house she waited in line for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She waited in line to drop off her dirty uniform; she waited in line to pick it up clean. She waited in line to leave the unit and to enter it again. It made her want to kill somebody. Like the bitch in line in front of her, using the phone. Alice didn’t recognize her. She must be from Unit B.

“I have to talk to him,” the inmate said, her voice high with anxiety. She picked at her scalp with long fingernails; her limp, brown hair had grown thin from the habit. “I need to discuss something important with him. I’m his wife.”

Alice felt a drumming in her head. She ignored it and checked the clock on the wall. Fuck. Only five minutes left before she had to get back to the unit. She’d have thrown the wacko off the phone but the guard was watching, his eyes shifting back and forth.

“Just tell him, tell him it’s me. Janine. Neenie. No, no, I have the right number. I know this is his number.”

The phone was on the wall in the hallway, next to the line for the commissary window. The inmates put in special orders and once a week the commissary packed transparent trash bags full of Doritos, potato chips, and Fritos. The dummies gobbled the shit like it was manna from heaven.

“No, no, no. She’s not his wife. I’m his wife. I’m telling you, I made him what he is today. He owes it all to me. He still loves me. Put him on right now.”

There was a line on the right, too, at the drug window. Inmates were lined up to pick up the legal drugs that got them off the illegal drugs, and suburban candy like Prozac and Ativan. The other inmates used the rock that traded freely in the house; the talk about instituting random drug testing never came to anything. Alice had had her stint with powder, then turned her experience into money. She was almost out of here, back in business on her own, the way she always wanted. But right now all she wanted was the goddamn phone. “Say good-bye, Neenie,” she said, reaching over and hanging up the phone as soon as the guard looked away.

The inmate turned. “How dare you? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Shut up or I’ll punch your face in,” Alice muttered. She picked up the phone and pounded in the number, checking her watch while the phone rang on the other end. Only two minutes left. The drug and commissary lines were almost finished. “Let me speak to him now,” she said when Bullock’s secretary picked up.