“I’m sure the DA would love to have this statement in his closing argument,” Christina said, “but that doesn’t make it relevant.”

“It goes to motive,” Drabble said. “More than that, actually. It proves motive.”

Lacayo shook his head. “I’m afraid that once again I’m inclined to agree with the prosecutor.”

Christina tore desperately through her notes. “What about Miranda rights?”

Lacayo glanced down at his briefs. “I have an affidavit stating that the rights were read and that the defendant waived them.”

“The defendant had been drinking,” Christina insisted. “His table was littered with tequila shot glasses. The police saw that. They knew he was in a vulnerable mental state. So they read him his rights real quick and started pounding him with questions.”

“Again, counsel, I’m not willing to give the man special privileges because he voluntarily engaged in foolish conduct.”

“Your honor, if the police can do this, they could pick up any kid who’s had a few too many and start hassling him till he says something incriminating. No one would be safe.”

Lacayo removed his glasses. “I think this is getting a bit far-fetched.”

“It goes to consent, sir, and the Constitution and the rulings of the U.S. Supreme Court require that Miranda rights be knowingly waived before the police may question. In his state of mind, he couldn’t possibly-”

“Let’s just cut through the baloney, could we?” Lacayo said, revealing another spark of temper. “Do you have any evidence indicating that your client did not understand his rights when they were read to him?”

Christina hesitated. “Well, the whole scenario-”

“I thought not. And if this man had his wits about him enough to brag about a hideous crime, he was able to understand the rights which he’s probably heard on television a thousand times before. Forgive me for saying so, counsel, but this argument is weak.”

“Your honor-”

“I don’t normally try to advise counsel, but I’m going to make an exception here, Ms. McCall, because you’re new to our court. I know this case has been thrust upon you in difficult circumstances. But you do not do your client any favors with these desperate arguments.”

Christina’s lips parted.

“To the contrary. By making it seem as if you’re floundering about, grasping for any straw no matter how feeble, you disincline the court to grant any relief in your favor and make a bad situation worse.”

Christina was speechless. Chewed out in open court, in front of the woman who hired her and a host of state and national media. Of course Lacayo was grandstanding for the reporters, but that made no difference. This was devastating.

“The best thing you can do now,” the judge continued, “is to stop making motions, go to trial, present what evidence you may have in a calm and reasoned manner, and let justice take its course. That public policy you were so concerned about earlier is not served by these frivolous attempts to suppress the truth.”

Christina fell into her seat, so choked she couldn’t speak.

“Your motion is denied. All your motions are denied. So if there is nothing else-”

“If I may, your honor,” Drabble cut in. “The state has a pending motion to bifurcate the evidentiary portion of the case from the sentencing portion. I filed a brief.”

The judge nodded. “I don’t have any problem with that.”

“Wait just one moment,” Christina said. “I didn’t get his brief.”

Lacayo peered across the room at her. “You have not received a copy?”

“Excuse me,” Drabble said, “but isn’t that your copy on your table, Ms. McCall? In the manila envelope.” He turned back to the judge. “I handed it to her myself.”

Christina ripped open the top envelope he had given her a few minutes before-that she had volunteered to carry for him. Sure enough-a motion to bifurcate.

The man had suckered her. Not once. But twice.

“So when you told the court that you did not have the brief, Ms. McCall,” the judge said, obviously angry, “that was something less than the truth?”

“I-I guess-I had it. I just didn’t-”

“Ms. McCall,” Judge Lacayo said, “this court feels just as strongly about truthfulness as it does about punctuality.”

“Of course, but-”

“Perhaps the least appealing quality of the unprepared lawyer is the tendency to make excuses for her failures.”

“But your honor-”

“The motion to bifurcate will be granted. This hearing is adjourned. Have a nice weekend, and I will see you all again Monday morning when we begin this trial.” He glared at Christina. “And I will expect rather better preparation and performance than I have seen in this courtroom today.” He slammed the gavel.

As soon as Lacayo was out of the courtroom, the noise level in the courtroom became deafening, at least to Christina. She just hoped to God that Drabble didn’t come over to extend his sympathies. That would be too much. She might have to slug the man. The reporters would be waiting for her outside, but she knew if she sweet-talked the judge’s clerk, he might let her exit via chambers.

So this was what it had come to-sneaking away from the courtroom, head hung in shame. What the hell had she thought she was doing when she took this case? She might sneak away from the reporters, but she knew she would still have to face Ellen, if not here, then back at Kevin’s office. What would she say?

She needed help. She didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. She was in over her head. As she packed away her materials, she noticed an e-mail she had printed out this morning. INTERNS SEEKING PART-TIME POSITIONS.

If Ben refused to help her, he couldn’t complain if she found someone else who would, right?

By the time she’d made it back to the street, Christina was already on her cell phone setting up interviews. As far as she was concerned, she had no choice. After a performance like today’s, she had to do something. Anything. Because when this trial started, it would be about a good deal more than her professional reputation. It would be about whether a young man who insisted he hadn’t committed a murder would be sentenced to death-because his attorney blew it.

Charlie the Chicken sat opposite the desk and stared at the man in the gray, off-the-rack J.C. Penney’s suit. He was the natty sort-everything in its place. You could see it on his desk; you could see it in his clothes. A hanky tucked in his jacket pocket. Even wore a tie tack, for God’s sake.

“Tell me about yourself,” the man said, folding his hands into each other.

“Sure.” It was a tiny office with plywood walls; the man shared space with a bail bondsman. “I grew up on the South Side. Dropped out of high school, moved downtown. Adventures in the big city-you know how it goes. Had some idea I was going to get involved with a theater company, but so far that hasn’t happened. I had to take a trip out of town recently, and… unfortunately, that caused a break with my previous employer. Now I’m back and looking for something to do.”

“Are you still interested in theater work?”

“Yeah. But at the moment, I need to earn some bread. But that’s okay. I mean-it’s all performing, isn’t it? When you get right down to it. Playing a role. Assuming a character. Trying to please the audience.”

Charlie had to fight to keep from laughing. Even a grin would probably be a mistake at this juncture. Who knew how much of a sense of humor this guy had, given what he did for a living? He came off as such a starched shirt. Charlie had expected a significantly higher sleaze factor-silk shirt, or perhaps Hawaiian, open at the collar, collar flared. Fat, feet on the desk, leaning back in the chair. Like a porn film producer, maybe. Instead, he got the man in the gray flannel suit.

“As you might imagine,” the man continued, “our hours are at times somewhat irregular and unpredictable. Would that be a problem?”