Innocent people didn't understand any of that. They were just innocent. End of story. Mason carried the burden of their freedom.

Innocent people didn't understand that the government had every edge; that the government didn't have to tell the defense lawyer anything about the government's case. Mason had represented another lawyer who had been charged with accepting kickbacks for settling personal injury cases for inflated amounts. The lawyer had been used to the civil justice system where the rules required both sides to lay all their cards on the table so that there were no surprises at trial. He nearly fainted when Mason had explained to him that most criminal cases were trial by ambush, with the government disclosing as little as possible, even withholding a witness's statement until after the witness had testified.

Mason used to wonder why the rules for fighting over other people's money were so carefully crafted to ensure a level playing field while the rules for saving an innocent person's life were so harsh. He decided it was because the people who wrote the rules were used to fighting over money and took their freedom for granted. He believed in the old joke that a liberal was just a Republican who'd been indicted.

Mason sat down in another hard-backed chair, set the legal pad he was carrying on the table, and wrote the name of the case-State v. Milestone-across the top of the first page.

"If I can prove you're innocent, I'll do it any way I have to. Harry doesn't expect anything less. He won't cut either one of us any slack and he'll get none from me. Now tell me what they've got on you."

Blues hesitated a moment, then nodded and sat down across from Mason.

"Jack Cullan came in the bar last Friday night, about nine o'clock."

Mason asked, "You knew him?"

"He tried to hire me once. He wanted me to take pictures of a dude playing hide the nuts with the wrong squirrel. I took a pass."

"How long ago was that?"

"Not long enough that he didn't recognize me when he came in the bar. When he paid for the drinks, he told me that I should have taken the job since it paid better than bartending. I told him it didn't pay better than bar-owning."

"Was he alone?"

"The absolute opposite of alone. He was with a fine-looking woman, early forties, my guess."

"Did you get her name?"

"Not at first. Before she left, she gave me her card. Her name was Beth Harrell."

Mason said, "As in Beth Harrell, the chair of the Missouri Gaming Commission?"

"Not likely that there's more than one Beth Harrell who'd be out clubbing with Jack Cullan."

"I can't believe she was out anywhere with Cullan," Mason answered. "Cullan and Harrell have been all over the front page of the Star. She's got to be out of her mind to be out with that guy."

"Maybe that's why she threw a drink in his face," Blues said.

"Okay," Mason said. "You want to take this from the top or just play catch-the-zinger?"

"You're the one asking the questions. I'm just the defendant."

"Start talking or I'll give you up to the public defender."

"Take it easy, Lou. You've got to work on your jailhouse manner," Blues told him. "I was on the bar. Pete Kirby, Kevin Street, and Ronnie Fivecoat had just started their set. Weather's so bad, the place is dead, but they were killing it, really cooking."

Mason had heard the trio before. Kirby on piano, Street on bass, and Fivecoat on drums. He'd have happily gone anywhere to hear them play.

"So Jack Cullan and Beth Harrell are doing their own jazz-club crawl on one of the worst nights of the year and pick your place to get warm?"

"You ask Beth Harrell why they were there. She didn't confide in me. I served them drinks and didn't pay any more attention to them until she stands up and douses him. Cullan's old and fat, but that old, fat man jumped up and popped her with the back of his hand. Knocked her on the floor."

Mason said, "I assume you didn't just tell them to take it outside so you could listen to Kirby's trio?"

"Would have been the smart play. But I don't like it when fat, old men slap women around. I grabbed Cullan from behind to help him calm down. That little prick scratched me like a cheap whore before I squeezed the air out of him."

Blues held up the backs of his hands so that Mason could see the red claw marks on both of them. "Broke the skin," Blues added.

"Was that it?" Mason asked.

"Almost. I told Beth Harrell that she should press charges against Cullan. She said that wasn't necessary, that they'd just had a misunderstanding. She was very cool about the whole thing. Gave me her business card, like that was some kind of free pass for getting smacked around."

"And then they left?"

"Yeah. Cullan was breathing again and was very pissed. He promised me that my liquor license would be gone in a week."

Mason knew that Blues wouldn't have let the threat go unanswered, and he waited for Blues to finish the story. Blues looked at the two-way mirror. "You sure they aren't listening in on this?"

"Not if they want to see you strapped to that gurney with a needle in your arm. What did you say to Cullan?"

Blues sighed, looked at the mirror again, and then back at Mason. "I told him that if he tried jacking with my license or ever came in my bar again, I'd twist his head off and stuff it up his ass."

"Well, that was memorable and stupid. What happened to being the strong silent type?"

"Cullan is used to getting in the last word, shoving people around, pimp-slapping women. No way he walks out of my place like he owned it."

"Blues's Law," Mason said. "What about afterward? What did you do after you closed the bar?"

"Home, man. By myself."

Mason stopped writing. "So you fought with this guy, he threatened you, and you threatened him back. Plus your blood and skin were under Cullan's fingernails when the maid found him. Harry's probably talked to Bern Harrell and Kirby, Street, and Fivecoat. He's got four witnesses to the threat and forensic evidence to go with it. And you don't have an alibi. I'd say he does like you for the murder."

Mason pushed back from the table and got up. Blues asked, "Where are you going?"

"Talk to Harry and find out what he's really got."

" Aren't you forgetting to ask me one thing?" Blues asked.

"What's that?" Mason answered.

"If I did it?"

Mason shook his head and smiled. "Don't have to. You would have told me. Blues's Law."

Blues smiled for the first time. "I guess you can do this, Lou."

"That I can," Mason said.

Mason found Harry squeezed into his desk chair, talking on the phone and rolling his eyes. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'm glad it's all over too, Mr. Mayor. Good-bye, sir." Harry put the phone down and motioned to Mason to pull up a chair.

"Did you forget to tell the mayor about the trial?" Mason asked as he borrowed a chair from another desk and sat down next to Harry.

Harry was pushing sixty, with half-gray sawdust hair, a soft-squared face, flat on the top and round on the sides. His bulk was more muscle than fat and his hands were like catchers' mitts. His build was constantly at war with his clothes, including the gray suit he'd picked for today. The arms on Harry's chair clamped his midsection like a vise. The police department had not been introduced to ergonomics.

"That's like the next election," Harry said. "Mayor Sunshine will worry about that tomorrow. Today, he'll tell the public that the case has been solved and make it sound like it was his collar."

Mason said, "I never saw a politician get so much out of his last name since the Kennedys. Anybody who can campaign on the slogan 'Let the Sunshine in Kansas City ' with a straight face wouldn't break a sweat solving a murder."