As he dragged her backward, toward the basement door, she felt his arm flex harder until her pleas and the choking grew softer and softer and the glare from the spotless living room window turned gray and then went black.

KATHRYN DANCE WAS no stranger to the American justice system. She had been in magistrates' offices and courtrooms as a crime journalist, a jury consultant, a law enforcement officer.

But she'd never been the relative of the accused.

After leaving the hospital, she'd dropped the children off at Martine's and called her sister, Betsey, who lived with her husband down in Santa Barbara.

"Bet, there's a problem with Mom."

"What? Tell me what happened." There'd been a rare edge in the voice of the otherwise flighty woman, younger than Dance by several years. Betsey had curly angelic hair and flitted from career to career like a butterfly testing out flowers.

Dance had run through the details she knew.

"I'll call her now," Betsey had announced.

"She's in detention. They've got her phone. There'll be a bail hearing soon. We'll know more then."

"I'm coming up."

"It might be better later."

"Sure, of course. Oh, Katie, how serious is this?"

Dance had hesitated. She recalled Harper's still, determined eyes, missionary's eyes. Finally she'd said, "It could be bad."

After they'd disconnected, Dance had continued here, to the magistrate's office at the courthouse, where she now sat with her father. The lean, white-haired man was even paler than usual (he'd learned the hard way of the dangers a marine biologist faces in the ocean sun and was now a sunscreen and hat addict). His arm was around her shoulders.

Edie had spent an hour in the holding cell-the intake area in which many of Dance's collars had been booked. Dance knew the procedures well: All personal effects were confiscated. You went through the warrant check and the inputting of information, and you sat in a cell, surrounded by other arrestees. And then you waited and waited.

Finally you were brought here, into the magistrate's chilly impersonal room for a bail hearing. Dance and her father were surrounded by dozens of family members of arrestees. Most of the accused here, some in street clothes, some in red Monterey County jumpsuits, were young Latino men. Dance recognized plenty of gang tats. Some were sullen whites, scruffier than the Latinos, with worse teeth and hair. In the back sat the public defenders. The bail bondsmen, too, waiting to pick up their 10 percent from the carcasses.

Dance lifted her eyes to her mother as she was brought in. It broke her heart to see the woman in handcuffs. She wasn't in a jumpsuit. But her hair, normally perfectly done, was in a shambles. Her homemade necklace had been taken from her upon processing. Her wedding and engagement rings too. Her eyes were red.

Lawyers milled about, some not much spiffier than their clients; only Edie Dance's attorney was in a suit that had been shaped by a tailor after purchase. George Sheedy had been practicing criminal law on the Central Coast for two decades. He had abundant gray hair, a trapezoidal figure with broad shoulders and a bass voice that would have done a stunning version of "Old Man River."

After the brief phone conversation with Sheedy from the car, Dance had immediately called Michael O'Neil, who'd been shocked at the news. She then called the Monterey County prosecutor, Alonzo "Sandy" Sandoval.

"I just heard about it, Kathryn," Sandoval muttered angrily. "I'm being straight with you: We've had MCSO looking into the Millar death, sure, but I had no idea that's what Harper was in town for. And a public arrest." He was bitter. "That was inexcusable. If the AG insisted on a prosecution, I would've had her surrender with you bringing her in."

Dance believed him. She and Sandy had worked together for years and had put a lot of bad people in jail, thanks in part to mutual trust.

"But I'm sorry, Kathryn. Monterey has nothing to do with the case. It's in Harper's and Sacramento 's hands now."

She'd thanked him and hung up. But at least she had been able to get her mother's bail hearing handled quickly. Under California law the time of the hearing is at the magistrate's discretion. In some places, like Riverside and Los Angeles, prisoners are often in a cell for twelve hours before they appear in front of the magistrate. Since the case was murder it was possible the magistrate might not set bail at all, leaving that to the discretion of the judge at the arraignment, which in California would have to occur within a few days.

The door to the outer hallway kept opening and Dance noticed that many of the recent arrivals were wearing media identification cards around their necks. No cameras were allowed, but there were plenty of pads of paper.

A circus…

The clerk called out, "Edith Barbara Dance," and, somber and red-eyed and still cuffed, her mother rose. Sheedy joined her. A jailor was beside them. This session was devoted exclusively to the bail; pleas were entered later, at the arraignment. Harper asked that Edie be held without bail, which didn't surprise Dance. Her father stiffened at the prosecutor's harsh words, which made Edie out to be a dangerous Jack Kevorkian, who, if released on bail, would target other patients for death and then flee to Canada.

Stuart gasped, hearing his wife spoken about in this way.

"It's okay, Dad," his daughter whispered. "That's just the way they talk." Though the words broke her heart too.

George Sheedy argued articulately for an OR release-on Edie's own recognizance, pointing to her lack of a criminal record and to her roots in the community.

The magistrate, a quick-eyed Latino who had met Kathryn Dance, exuded considerable stress, which she could easily read in his posture and facial expressions. He wouldn't want this case at all; he'd have loyalty to Dance, who was a reasonable law officer, cooperative. But he would also be aware that Harper was a big name from the big city. And the magistrate would be very aware of the media too.

The arguments continued.

Dance the law enforcer found herself looking back to earlier that month, reliving the circumstances of the officer's death. Trying to match facts with facts. Whom had she seen in the hospital around the time Juan Millar died? What exactly were the means of death? Where had her mother been?

She now glanced up and found Edie staring at her. Dance gave a pale smile. Edie's face was expressionless. The woman turned back to Sheedy.

In the end the magistrate compromised. He set the bail at a half million dollars, which wasn't atypical for a murder, but also wasn't overly burdensome. Edie and Stuart weren't wealthy but they owned their house outright; since it was in Carmel, not far from the beach, it had to be worth two million. They could put it up as security.

Harper took the news stoically-his face unsmiling, his posture upright but relaxed. Dance's reading was that he was completely stress free, despite the setback. He reminded her of the killer in Los Angeles, J. Doe. One of the reasons she'd had such a hard time spotting that perp's deception was that a highly driven, focused person reveals, and feels, little distress when lying in the name of his cause. This certainly defined Robert Harper.

Edie was hustled back to the cell and Stuart rose and went to see the clerk to arrange for the bail.

As Harper buttoned his jacket and walked toward the door, his face a mask, Dance intercepted him. "Why are you doing this?"

He regarded her coolly, said nothing.

She continued, "You could've let Monterey County handle the case. Why'd you come down from San Francisco? What's your agenda?" She was speaking loudly enough for the reporters nearby to hear.

Harper said evenly, "I can't discuss this with you."