“My problem is your problem, too,” Casey said. “You’ve got a police department destroying evidence.”

The DA stiffened and furrowed his brow and said, “Evidence from twenty years ago, or last week?”

“You know I’m here for the Hubbard case,” Casey said. “It wasn’t on your watch, so I thought we could cut through the usual bullshit. I’m not here to hurt anyone or cause trouble. My job is to correct an injustice from a long time ago. I’ve got a man whose defense lawyer didn’t even subpoena his alibi witness. No one looked into a white BMW my client saw near the scene. Things that smack of racial profiling and a black scapegoat. This didn’t have anything to do with now, or you, or anyone’s career. That was, until I went down there today and found out those clowns destroyed the evidence from this case.”

“And lots of others, too,” the DA said, replacing his cup with a clink and setting the saucer down on a side table. “There’s no requirement in this state to preserve evidence once the appeals run out.”

“Too bad they targeted this case,” Casey said.

“How would they even know you were coming?” the DA asked, incredulous.

“Small town, right?” Casey said. “You think Marty Barrone didn’t spill the word about the Freedom Project on its way here? The cops caught wind and they went to work.”

“Pretty serious accusation,” the DA said.

“That’s why it’s your problem.”

“What makes you say they targeted your case?” he asked.

“This case got tried in 1989,” Casey said, “before DNA was used. There was a knife they found, allegedly with the victim’s blood. The type was a match, but if we’re right, that knife would clear my client. Half of the evidence from that year was destroyed. The problem is that 1988 is still on the shelf.”

The DA raised his eyebrows.

“I’d like you to begin a formal investigation of the officers involved as well as the chief himself,” Casey said.

A smile curled the right corner of the DA’s lips as he stood. “That’s not going to happen. Now I’m beginning to see why Marty isn’t here. I know you’re a famous lawyer from Texas-everything’s bigger in Texas, you mix it up with senators and serial killers, I know-but this is a small town and we are a little old-fashioned. You don’t come in here and start dictating. You save that for your next movie of the week. If there’s no evidence, then there’s really nothing anyone can do. There isn’t a judge living or dead who’d overturn a conviction on a missing witness or a phantom BMW. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming up here. We had the district attorneys’ national convention in Dallas two years ago, so I know it’s a long haul.”

Casey stared hard at the DA for a moment before she calmly said, “You know, I just found out I have an interview with American Sunday at seven o’clock tonight, and they want to talk about this case. You want to play it like this with me? Fine. Get ready for a shit storm.”

Casey stood up.

“Thanks for the courtesy call,” the DA said, striding to the door and flinging it open and waving her through with sarcastic drama. “And tell your husband good luck.”

“My husband?” Casey said, passing through and turning to face him.

“He’s suing you for slander, right?” the DA said with a smirk. “Yeah, my wife gets People magazine. I guess he says you’re a real bitch, but after meeting you I find that really hard to believe.”

Casey’s ex-husband had filed a lawsuit against her and Lifetime for their portrayal of him in the movie of the week that seemed to haunt Casey, a movie about her successful defense of an old law school professor, a serial killer who she later helped capture.

“A bitch?” Casey said. “I just might cry. You better get your shit together, Merideth. Come tomorrow, you’ve entered the big leagues and that diploma up on the wall from Touro College won’t help a bit.”

IF JAKE CARLSON COULD have gotten off the plane, he would have. If he didn’t have a contract coming up in four months and if his son, Sam, wasn’t at sleepaway camp until the end of the week, he would never have agreed to fly up to Syracuse in the first place. But Jake had recently had a run of stories that, while interesting to him, had fallen flat with the network executives, and the president herself was hot for an American Sunday profile on Robert Graham. As they finally took off on a bumpy ride through the thunderclouds, Jake wondered whether it was the turbulence or the thought of Graham that was making him queasy.

After they landed, Jake helped the woman next to him with the bag that had managed to crush his jacket during the flight, then bolted for the rental car counter. He took the GPS, even though he knew the surrounding area pretty well, having spent some of his earlier years in television in the local market and more recently having broken a national story on a corrupt politician and his ties with the Albanian mob operating out of central New York. By the time he arrived at the Holiday Inn in Auburn, it was just past nine. His field producer, Dora Pine, waited for him in the front with her cell phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Jake pulled the big Cadillac into one of the ten-minute unloading spots and got out, smoothing the wrinkles in his jacket before buttoning up his shirt.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“You look like you need a shower,” Dora said, running a hand over her short curly hair, “and you’ve got time. We lost our girl and I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“Come again?” Jake said.

“Don’t give me that look,” Dora said, stomping out her cigarette under the combat boots she wore beneath her army fatigues. “I kept her for over an hour, sitting there with her BlackBerry and looking at her watch before she blew out of here bitching about wasting her time.”

“Newark,” Jake said, undoing the top button again. “What else do I need to say? Where is she?”

“She said something about a plate of spaghetti, and I don’t think she’ll understand the Newark thing,” Dora said. “Our buddy Graham is flying her around in his jet, so go easy on the airline woes.”

Jake studied her. “I know the type.”

Dora shrugged and said, “She’s pretty, she’s smart, and I think she knows it.”

“Well,” Jake said, hefting his bag from the backseat, “I’ll put an iron to this jacket and wash my face. That should charm the hell out of her. Maybe some deodorant, too.”

“I got sandwiches in there if you’re hungry,” Dora said as he entered the lobby.

“Remember those little finger sandwiches in Los Angeles?”

“You can settle for Subway,” she said. “And we’re set up just down this hall.”

Jake checked in and cleaned up, then had a sandwich while a young woman worked on his face and Dora rechecked her shots. Jake leafed back through his file on Casey Jordan while he waited.

“Why don’t you close your mouth while you look,” Dora said, leaning over his shoulder and nodding at a color photo of Casey standing next to a courthouse column that filled an entire page of TIME magazine.

“How smart can she really be?” Jake asked, his eyes on the photo and the lean lines beneath the skirt. “She looks like a model.”

“Smart enough to whisper if the door’s open.”

Casey Jordan stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. The camera crew busied themselves with their cables and wires and Jake’s face warmed and then broke into a grin.

“A very intelligent model,” Jake said with an embarrassed smile. “You know Elle Macpherson has a PhD in nuclear physics?”

“That’s not true.”

“She doesn’t like to brag about it.”

Casey walked into the midst of the lights and cameras and cables, plunked herself down in the chair opposite Jake, and crossed her shapely legs. “So should I assume that if I have a hot story that goes way beyond your puff piece on Robert Graham that you’re not the one I should talk to? You do realize you’re wearing makeup.”