Nat sat, allegedly concentrating, in her small modern office. She'd called Angus twice but he didn't call back. She went to see him after her morning classes but he was gone. McConnell had already sent around an email advising everybody that he was assuming supervision of all externships, which set the faculty and students buzzing. Colleagues who had never spoken to Nat had stopped in to fish for juicy details. She'd begged off, saying she had to research her article, and corroborated her alibi by papering her desk with handwritten notes and placing a takeout Dunkin' Donuts cup next to her laptop, which had long ago gone into hibernation, code for "you're not working hard enough, girl."

She checked her desk clock. 12:05 p.m. She had brought Mrs. Saunders's phone number to the office but hadn't gotten up the nerve to call her yet, though she came close at 10:23 a.m. and 10:43 a.m. She'd wanted to talk it over with Hank, but he'd left early again. She couldn't decide whether to call. She felt as if it were either urgent or too soon, which made no sense.

Her gaze wandered over the wooden chairs in front of her desk, then strayed to the wall-mounted bookshelves of yellowish oak, happily crammed with law books, case reporters, and legal nonfiction. Llewellyn's Bramble Bush, Holmes's The Common Law, Breyer's Active Liberty. The sight of books didn't comfort her the way it usually did, and she couldn't stop thinking about Mrs. Saunders, Angus, or yesterday. No reporters had called her, for which she thanked God. Still. She hit a key to wake up her computer and logged onto phillynews.com. She had to look everywhere to find the story: Disturbance Put Down in Record Time at Chester County Correctional Institution.

Nat almost laughed. What had Angus said? Let the spinning begin. She clicked the link and the story came on, barely a paragraph on her laptop screen:

Prison officials quelled a disturbance at SCI Chester County yesterday, in the record time of sixteen minutes, though not before the deaths of a corrections officer and three inmates. The disturbance began with a mattress fire in the RHU, or the rehabilitation unit, but was suppressed with the use of high-tech "stingers," percussive devices that fire nonlethal rubber pelts when deployed. Killed were corrections officer Ron Saunders, 38, of Pocopson, and inmates Simon Upchurch, 34, of Chester, Herman Ramirez, 37, and Jorge Orega, 32, both of Avondale. Charges in connection with the incident are pending.

Nat frowned. The article made it sound as if all the deaths had taken place in the RHU, which they hadn't, and that Saunders was a casualty of the melee, rather than having been murdered in a different Place. Did the difference matter? She skimmed the article again and noticed a related article link, and clicked it. The Very Model of a Corrections Officer, popped onto the screen. It was a sidebar about Saunders. She sipped cold coffee and read on:

Ron Saunders died as he lived, serving others. When inmates started a fire in the RHU, the rehabilitation unit where violent inmates are housed, Saunders was the first to respond to the call. That urge to serve others got him killed, even in a minor disturbance. Saunders was a veteran corrections officer with an eleven-year record, and also served as a volunteer firefighter for Pocopson Township and was well known in the community for his good works. He leaves behind a wife, Barbara, and three children, Timothy, John, and James. A private memorial and viewing will be held in his honor, and the family has requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the Boys' and Girls' Clubs of West Chester, Pa.

Again, Nat didn't get it. The sidebar also made it sound as if Saunders had died in the RHU. She shook her head, which started to pound again. Saunders's wife was named Barbara and he had three kids. Nat couldn't put it off another minute. She grabbed the notepaper with the number, picked up the phone, and called the Saunders house. Her heart began to hammer, and the call connected with a loud click.

"Yes?" answered a woman who sounded older.

"Hi, my name is Nat Greco. I hate to bother you, but is this the home of Ron Saunders, who worked as a corrections officer?"

"Yes, it is."

"Please accept my condolences. May I ask, is Mrs. Saunders at home?"

"She can't come to the phone. I'm her mother. You're not a reporter, are you?"

"No, not at all. I teach at a law school. I was at the prison when the riot broke out." Nat swallowed hard. "I happened to be with Mr. Saunders, at the time he… when he…"

"You're the one," the woman said, her tone hushed. "We heard that there was someone with him. Were you there, when he died?"

"I tried to save him." Nat felt shaky all over again. "I'm sorry, so sorry, that I couldn't."

"No, no, no, dear, that's all right." The older woman's tone turned soothing. "I didn't mean it that way. Barbara, my daughter, was so pleased that Ron wasn't alone when he passed. I feel exactly the same way."

Nat breathed easier. "I was wondering if I could speak with Mrs. Saunders sometime. I could talk with her over the phone or in person, whenever it's convenient. Whatever she wishes."

"I know she'd love to meet you and talk with you. You're her last connection with Ron. Would you mind coming out to the house? I'm afraid she's not ready to travel, and the children are here."

Poor kids. "Of course, I'll come there."

"When can you come? I know she'll want to see you as soon as possible. We were just talking about it, praying that you existed and that it wasn't just a rumor."

"I can come whenever you wish. Anytime this week is fine."

"How kind of you. How about today?"

Gulp.

"It would be such a comfort to Barbara, and she needs it. If you could manage it, anytime this afternoon would be wonderful. Though I'm sure you're very busy."

"No, I'm not. I'm in the city, and I could leave now and be there in an hour or so. I have your address."

"See you then. We're here all day."

Thank you," Nat said, hanging up. No time like the present. She logged onto maps.com, got the driving directions, and was printing them when she heard a knock. She looked up. Angus was standing in the threshold of her office in his thick sweater, wearing a sideways grin. If he was upset about the meeting with McConnell, he was covering it well.

"So this is your office, huh?" he said, looking around. "Nice vibe. Pretty. Light. Quiet." As he scanned the shelves, Nat slid the driving directions discreetly from the tray. Angus gestured at the large window behind her chair, which overlooked Sansom Street, with its trendy shops and restaurants. "You have the hip and cool view. The White Dog is my favorite restaurant. Free-range law professors our specialty."

"What's your view like?" It struck Nat that she had no idea where Angus's office was. She really had to get out more.

"I'm in the basement, but it's gorgeous. We have our own place, all remodeled. You should see it."

"Don't tell me, lemme guess. Posters of Che Guevara. Lenin. Woodstock. Birds on guitars."

"How did you know?" Angus laughed, but Nat didn't want to banter anymore. He had to be hurting inside.

"You okay?"

"You mean since my demotion?"

"You weren't demoted."

"Emasculated, then."

Nat smiled, and Angus laughed, nevertheless.

"I'm fine. I called Sam's cell, but there was no answer. He has to go to the veldt to get away, where there's no possibility of fund-raising."

Nat cocked her head. "I feel bad for you."

"Don't worry. Sam gets it. He knows how important those externships are, and I built them. He'll set it right when he comes back." Angus shrugged. "Did you see the newspapers?"

"The account is hardly complete, or accurate."