Frank wasn’t a member of the Westmont but he’d been there several times. He guessed that the police photographer had been standing under the portico at the main entrance and had shot across the turnaround toward the pro shop. Even though it was a night shot, Frank could see the side of the turnaround closest to the entrance with enough definition to make out a section of a flower bed that had been trampled underfoot. But the light from the club entrance faded out midway across the turnaround, leaving the far side in shadow. The pro shop, which was about twenty-five yards back from the road on the side away from the club, was almost impossible to see.

“Where was Marsh supposed to be standing?” Frank asked.

“See the road leading from the main street?” Cross asked, pointing at the far side of the turnaround.

Frank nodded.

“He was a little bit in from where the road bends toward the parking lot, sort of a straight line to the edge of the pro shop.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

Frank studied the picture. “There’s not a lot of light on that spot. How do they put Marsh with the gun?”

“Several witnesses will testify that they saw a muzzle flash from the area where Marsh was standing, but the key witness for the state is Werner Rollins. He’s an ex-con and Burdett is holding him on an outstanding warrant. Rollins is an acquaintance of Marsh who was at the seminar with another ex-con, named Gary Hass. A fight broke out after the congressman hit Marsh. Rollins got into it with a security guard. He ended up in the group on the other side of the turnaround. Then he took off when Pope was shot. The police picked him up a few hours later. He’s cut a deal with Burdett and he’s going to testify that he saw Marsh shoot Pope.”

“What does his buddy, Hass, say?”

“He’s not in custody but they do have Delmar Epps. It looks like Epps drove Marsh from the scene. He was also involved in the fight. Word is they’re cutting a deal with him, too.”

“What does he say happened to the gun?”

“He says Hass opened the limo door when the car stopped. When Epps realized the limo driver wasn’t opening the door he thought there might be trouble-a fan, paparazzi-so he says he got out to deal with Hass and left the gun on the seat.”

“So we have Marsh in the car with the gun.”

Cross nodded.

“Where’s Marsh now?”

“My latest information is that he’s sought asylum in Batanga, which doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.”

“Doesn’t a cannibal run that country?”

“So they say.”

“Okay, so we have Marsh as the shooter. Why does Burdett think Mrs. Pope is involved?”

Cross pointed at a Xerox copy of a group of photographs. “The day before he was shot, someone sent these pictures and an anonymous note to the congressman’s office. The pictures show our client and Charlie Marsh in compromising positions in her house and they show Mrs. Pope at night going into and out of the elevator that went to Marsh’s penthouse hotel suite. The note said that Sally Pope and Marsh were going to be at the Westmont on the following evening. The note was made by pasting letters cut from magazine ads onto a sheet of white paper. Sally Pope’s fingerprints are all over the paper and on some of the pasted letters. Mrs. Pope subscribes to the magazine from which the letters were cut. I think Burdett is going to argue that our client lured her husband to the club from DC so Charlie Marsh could shoot him.”

“Do we know where the paper is from?”

“Similar paper was found during a search of the Pope residence.”

Frank studied the pictures of Marsh and his client in flagrante. He looked troubled for a moment. Then he brightened.

“Someone took the pictures of Marsh and our client making out. Find the photographer, Herb. He’s the key to this case.”

“Do you have any idea who might have hired the photographer if it wasn’t our client?”

“I’ll ask her for ideas, but the obvious suspect is Arnold Pope Sr.”

Frank told his investigator about Senior’s relationship with Junior and his daughter-in-law.

“Do you know-off the top of your head-what law firm Senior uses for his legal work?” Cross asked.

“I think it’s Reed, Briggs. Why?”

“Investigators who do surveillance work are a special breed. They’re usually loners who earn a living by spending eight to twelve hours a day with their camera staking out workmen’s comp claimants or plaintiffs in personal injury cases to see if they can catch them malingering. They’re frequently social misfits who can’t take regular office work. They don’t like routines or bosses looking over their shoulder. Firms don’t carry these guys on their payroll like they do in-house investigators, but they have a list of people they’ll contract with for odd jobs when the need arises. If Arnold Sr. hired the photographer he may have gotten the name from someone at Reed, Briggs.”

“Get on it, then. If we can prove that Senior hired the person who took the photos we’ll tear a huge hole in the state’s case. Have you found anything else that could cause us problems?”

“I’m not certain. There are two witnesses listed on the indictment who don’t match up with a police report.”

“Who are they?”

“Otto Jarvis and Anthony Rose.”

Frank frowned. “I don’t recognize Rose. I’ll ask Mrs. Pope if she knows him. Jarvis is a lawyer.”

“Is he with a big firm?”

“No, he’s a bottom-feeder. He does court-appointed criminal cases, but nothing big. Misdemeanors, shoplifts, drunk drives. I’ve heard that he does a lot of divorce work. If I’m not mistaken, he’s had a few problems with the bar, so check to see if he’s had ethics complaints filed against him.”

“Will do. Should I see if he’s connected with Senior? Maybe he’s the one who set him up with the photographer.”

“That’s a good idea,” Frank said. Then he went quiet. When he spoke again he looked worried.

“What concerns me, Herb, is the absence of a police report for these two witnesses. That usually means a DA is setting up a surprise, and I don’t like surprises when I’m in trial.”

As Highway 26 heads west from Portland toward the Pacific Ocean, the urban landscape gives way quickly to suburban shopping malls and green spaces dominated by sprawling, glass-and-chrome office complexes housing high-tech companies. Frank Jaffe was already in farm country when he took the exit to Hillsboro twenty minutes after leaving the city.

Frank looked forward to the drive to and from the courthouse during the trial, because he was alone with Sally Pope. Much of the time, Frank discussed trial strategy or gave Sally his impressions of the way the trial was going, but sometimes they talked about things that had nothing to do with the law, and those were the times Frank treasured the most. He knew the ethics rules prohibited him from having a romantic relationship with a client, but spending an hour a day alone with Sally was the next best thing.

If Frank had to use one word to describe Sally Pope’s demeanor during her trial, it would be “composed.” It would definitely not be “serene,” because Frank knew that there were times when she was boiling mad, but Sally never let anyone but Frank see this side of her and she only let her emotions show in the privacy of Frank’s office or in his car.

The grayish white, neoclassical Washington County courthouse took up a block on the outskirts of city center in Hillsboro. Each morning, when they arrived for court, reporters hurled questions at Frank and his client as he escorted Sally between the fluted columns at the main entrance. And each day they ignored the press and hurried up the stairs to the courtroom of the Honorable Dagmar Hansen in which Mrs. Pope’s future was being decided.

Judge Hansen, a dirty-blond, cigarette-smoking hard case in her mid-forties, had made her bones defending insurance companies. She was a political conservative who was very smart and tried to be fair. The judge had made enough money in private practice to be immune to a bribe and she had enough integrity to stand up to a bully. Frank was confident that Arnold Pope Sr. would not be able to get to her.