An excellent French restaurant, the Rue Charmaine, occupied the ground floor of David Freeman's apartment building. Freeman sometimes ate there as often as four times a week, after which he'd walk up the flight of stairs to his own spacious one-bedroom flat. Last night, he'd had dinner there with a forty-year-old female attorney named Gina Roake. They'd shared an extraordinary bottle of Romanee-Conti, talked law and politics, law and the theater, law and the recently-concluded football season. After dinner, Gina had asked if David would mind her staying over, and he said he thought that would be very nice.

Now, just after dawn, Freeman was whistling tunelessly, puttering about his cluttered kitchen in an ancient and threadbare maroon bathrobe and his lounging slippers. Normally, his battered and pitted kitchen table sagged with documents, law books, and files on his cases, but this morning he'd cleared all that away, covered the wood with a white linen tablecloth, and laid out a formal coffee service – sugar, cream, butter, jams and jellies, and a still warm and crusty morning baguette from the Rue Charmaine's morning delivery.

Freeman paused and smiled appreciatively as the strains of Mahler's Fifth began to emanate from his living room at a barely audible volume. A moment later, Gina made her appearance, combing out her still-damp hair, delightfully filling out the still plush bathrobe he'd once purchased from the Bel Air Hotel.

'You look lovely,' he said.

She crossed the few steps over and leaned up to kiss him. Then she withdrew to arm's length, smiling up at him. 'I feel lovely,' she said.

'For a moment there, I had this awful feeling that you were going to tell me I looked lovely too.'

She laughed. 'Actually…'

He wagged a finger. 'I don't think we want to go there. Come, sit down, coffee's hot.'

He poured for her, then for himself. When they were settled, Freeman took his first sip, nodded approvingly, and put down his spoon. 'All right,' he said, 'if you still want to talk about it, I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be.' The previous night during their dinner, in one of their law discussions, Gina was talking about one of her cases, and suddenly – atypically – Freeman had stopped her, saying he'd prefer not to ruin such a fine evening by talking about Dash Logan.

Now he made a face. 'This is the second time he's come up in the past two weeks. Or maybe I should say crawled out from under his rock or wherever it is that he lives. I'm taking this as a bad sign for our profession.' He sighed. 'So what's the case again? Last night my mind was on other things.'

She smiled at the compliment, then briefly sketched in to the point where he'd stopped her last night on the Oberlin proceeding. The District Attorney was bringing criminal charges against Gina's client, Abby, who had taken care of her mother for the past several years, and who had inherited the vast percentage of an eight million dollar estate. It was obvious, Gina said, that Jim the no-good brother was behind the charges, and simply was extorting his sister for a portion of the take.

Freeman listened, chewing absent-mindedly on a crust of baguette. 'So let me get this straight – the DA is filing charges. What are they alleging?'

'I gather elder abuse all the way to manslaughter. They haven't filed them yet.'

This brought a frown. 'Why not, if they've built the case?'

'I don't know for sure. I think Gabe Torrey might just be dragging his feet.' Her tone conveyed some skepticism. 'He said he didn't want to try this case, although elderly abuse is high on Pratt's agenda. Apparently he didn't like Jim, the brother.'

Freeman nodded impatiently. He'd heard the name once and of course didn't need to be reminded. 'So what's like got to do with it? Your client committed a crime, or she didn't.'

'She didn't, David.'

He held up his bread hand. 'I'm not saying she did, Gina. I'm saying that's got to be Torrey's position.'

But she was shaking her head. 'And evidently it will be. He will green light the investigation and get to the charges pretty soon, but he wanted to give me a chance to settle, maybe save Abby some grief.'

Freeman had stopped chewing, stopped all movement. His eyes bored into emptiness somewhere between himself and Gina. 'My Lord,' he said.

'What?'

He answered her with another question. 'And if memory serves, this humanitarian brother Jim is our connection to Dash Logan?'

'He's his lawyer.'

A nod. 'Right, and already on board, n'est-ce pas? You see anything wrong with this picture, Gina?'

She stalled, sipping some coffee, finally shook her head. 'To this point, not really.' She leaned forward. 'Except it felt funny somehow. It's why I brought it up to you.'

'I'll tell you why it felt funny. Because the DA doesn't do that.'

But she didn't agree. 'I think Gabe did it on his own. My take was that Gabe was trying to do the right thing off the record.'

'The right thing?'

'It does happen.'

'Not as often as you think, Gina. Not as often as you think.'

'Well, maybe this time, though.'

But he kept at it. 'And this right thing, this time, would be to make your client give away a million of her dollars?'

'That wasn't exactly the spin he put on it. He was talking about saving her half a million, a couple of years of hassle, and a lot of trouble.'

'And he just happened to find this particular case out of the blue, out of the hundreds the DA is prosecuting? And felt sorry for your client, whom his office is about to charge?'

Gina fidgeted with the crumbs on her plate. 'Maybe that's why it made me uncomfortable.'

'Because you have good instincts, that's why.' Freeman stood up, walked over to the window, looked down onto the street. 'So the next step is Gabe tells you to call this guy's lawyer, is that it?'

'Essentially.' She saw his reaction. 'What? That seemed to make sense. It still does.'

'How's that?'

'I'm a lawyer. I'm not going to talk to the brother. I'm going to go through channels, through his counsel.'

'How do you know he has one? How does Torrey know he has one?'

'He's talked to the guy, remember? That's how. He probably mentioned it.'

Freeman had paced back to the stove. He leaned back against it, arms crossed. 'OK, ask yourself this. A guy thinks a crime has been committed, he goes to the police, right? Right. Then the crime gets charged, and he's working exclusively with the DA's office, with the prosecutors. Are you with me here?'

Catching on, Gina nodded. 'He's already got an office-full of lawyers working for him, who also happen to work for the DA.'

'Exactly,' Freeman said. 'The DA's office. So what does he need his own lawyer for? I mean, handling the same case. He's not a defendant so he doesn't need a defense attorney. Hell, he's not even a plaintiff in a civil case. He's just a guy reporting a crime. He goes to the DA. He doesn't need his own attorney.'

'Well.' The light was coming on, but Gina still couldn't quite see. 'People have lawyers, David. Abby – my client – she told me they'd been fighting over the will.'

'She and her brother, or you and her brother's lawyer?'

'Well, no. The first.'

'But now dear old Jim's got a lawyer who's ready to settle.' Freeman had switched into his justly-famous flamboyant courtroom mode. He took a couple of steps forward, toward the table. His voice took on a note of urgency. 'And then Torrey says old Jim will withdraw the accusation he made. Torrey tells you he knows this. He holds it out to you as pretty much guaranteed, a done deal. Well, answer me this: how can he possibly know that unless he's talked to Jim's lawyer, who – I might add – shouldn't even be in the picture around these criminal charges? And who happens to be the most unsavory person practicing law in the great state of California?'