Terry said, "Believe me, Gerry, I'm in good hands with this young lady."

Getting on a first-name basis right away.

But then he said, "I wish I could take her back to Rwanda with me."

Debbie said, "Father, please," sounding mildly shocked, but with a smile to show he was kidding and she was going along with it.

Padilla said, "I don't blame you, Father."

And she had to smile again, this time as Padilla winked at her-the rogue.

She sat in the same row but left space to show she didn't intend to become involved. Terry sat turned away somewhat, his back to her, while Padilla could look right at her over Terry's shoulder. Debbie kept her gaze on the judge's bench now, straight ahead, giving the prosecutor a good shot of her profile, her cute nose, the pert way she tilted her head as she gazed about, lips slightly parted. She could hear them okay.

From the start talking about Rwanda.

Padilla saying he had read an account of the genocide, a fascinating book with the chilling title/P'e wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. Asking Terry if he'd read it. Terry saying no, Gerry, being there was enough, seeing dozens of his parishioners hacked to death as he watched from the altar. Padilla taking this in and then wanting to know why the victims accepted death in such a fatalistic manner. Terry saying they were a very serious people, Gerry, who bowed to authority and would always abide by the fact of whatever was happening to them. Terry saying nonetheless he knew in his heart they were martyrs, welcomed by Our Lord that very day into Heaven.

Nonetheless?

Padilla would raise his head to steal a glance this way and Debbie would show him a solemn look, almost but not quite sorrowful. Now the prosecutor was asking about the Rwandan legal system's ability to deal with the more than one hundred thousand alleged perpetrators being held in prisons, saying he'd read about a system of tribunals on the village level they might try in order to speed up the process, the prosecutor saying he believed it was called Gacaca. Terry saying yes, it was being considered, "But if you don't mind my correcting you, Gerry, it's not pronounced ka-ka in their language, Kinyarwanda, but cha-cha, like the dance. So it's Gachacha." Gerry Padilla was smiling, shaking his head…

As Debbie, smiling back at him, was saying to herself, I've got to get out of here.

She took the elevator down to the main floor and stepped outside the front entrance to have a cigarette. It was cold out here, bleak, a few other smokers waiting to go in. Jurors coming along St. Antoine, back from lunch, got Debbie thinking about a jury bit. She heard her voice playing it to herself:

"I served on a iury once. It was a murder trial, like Twelve Angry Men only this one was eleven pissed-off guys and me. They all wanted to convict and I was the holdout. They'd say, 'The guy was caught with the fucking gun in his hand. Why can't you see that?'

And I'd go, 'But he couldn't have done it.' Beat. 'He's so cute.'"

Work on it. You can't vote to convict. You can't even kill a fly.

Why not? Because you are a fly. A fly on the wall. Buzzing around, buzz buzzit's what you see out of your huge fly eyes. "I've been walking around on dog shit out in the yard. Hmmmm, why don't I take a stroll on that lovely lemon meringue pie? My purpose in life is to be annoying, fuck with people and get them waving at me and cursing. Oh, there's a couple getting it on. Why don't I land on-"

Her phone rang.

"-that big white butt."

Her cell phone, a faint sound coming from her handbag. Debbie got it out and for the next few minutes listened to a lawyer, a good friend of hers, answer a question she had left with his assistant two days ago. As she listened she said, "Yeah?" a number of times. She said, "Oh?" thinking oh no. She listened and said, "Oh," a few more times. Listened again and said, "No, I'm outside, on Frank Murphy's front steps," and looked up at the building against a dead-pale sky.

"I'm with a friend, a smuggler." Had to explain that, then listened for more than a minute and said, "Get out of here. Really? You think he could be called up?" She said, "Ed, I appreciate this more than I can tell you. And I'll think about what you said, I promise." She said,

"Anytime. Give me a call."

Not more than a few minutes later Terry was coming out of the building, a happy Saint Francis in his beard and parka, grinning at her.

"I'm off the hook."

"Did you ever get around to the indictment?"

Terry hugged her. "We ran out of time. He told me not to worry about it-I must have enough on my mind with the business of saving souls."

"Saving your ass," Debbie said. "What did you do, call him 'my son' a few times?" Debbie talking, filling in, still in her mind with Ed Bernacki, a lawyer who gave her confidential information with confidence, but seemed hesitant this time. She was anxious to tell Terry what she'd learned and would watch him to get his reaction. But it wasn't something to talk about here.

Terry was saying his very dear friend Gerry Padilla had turned out to be a good guy. "He even gave me a hundred bucks for the orphans.

A check."

"Made out to you?"

"No, I had him make it out to the Little Orphans of Rwanda Fund.

I've already opened an account; Fran took me."

She said, "That's where you want to put the check?"

"Yeah, and get a drink."

She saw him looking down St. Antoine now, toward Greektown, and said, "There's nothing much around here. Why don't we go back to your brother's house? We can get comfortableif you catch my drift."

It put a smile in his beard. "Anything you say."

Which was just what she wanted to hear.

IT WAS FRAN'S LIBRARY THAT reminded her of the home where she grew up: the distressed paneling and the sets of leatherbound books no one had ever read. She told Terry and it led to a short version of her life:

Really, a lot like the home she left to go to Ann Arbor and only came back for holidays and the summer her mom and dad divorced and that was the end of pre-law and the idea of following her dad into what was possibly the world's most boring fucking profession. She never really wanted to be a lawyer. Switched to psychology, hated it and switched to English Lit, since she'd be reading anyway, she might as well get credit for it. Dug Restoration comedy, nutty stuff like Love in a Tub, and thought she might want to act. No, dance. In a chorus line.

Do funky Bob Fosse numbers in a derby. No, do stand-up comedy because her friends thought she was funny and Goldie Hawn became her idol till she trimmed her goal to a comedy tap routine, telling jokes while clickety-clicking. Shit, but that was vaudeville. Strip and tell jokes. That was burlesque. There was good money in go-go dancing, dirty guys stuffing your G-string with dollar bills, but it was too scary, crack a major threat. So after her dad's funeral, where she met the legal assistant who'd become his second wife and liked her and agreed to stay in touch, and her mom moved to a condo in Florida, preAlzheimer's, she never went back to go-going, saved the tap shoes she finally gave her mom, took the advice of her dad's second wife and went to work in the murky fringes of law doing investigations, standup on the side, "Minding my own fucking business when that snake slithered into my life, cost me three years and all my money."

Terry said, "You've done a lot without really doing anything, haven't you?"

"All I want now," Debbie said, "is a normal life."

He went out to the kitchen, came back to the library with a bottle of beer, a double Scotch neat and her vodka on a silver tray. They sat down in the sofa to talk, Debbie saying, "There's something I better tell you."