Ten minutes later as we walked down the corridor outside the door of Susan Peterson's room, I said, "A saint."

Lauren asked, "What are you talking about? What do you mean 'a saint'?"

"She asked who's going to take care of her. Well, that's who's going to take care of her. The answer is, a saint."

"Alan. That's so unkind."

"I'm sorry. Her situation is tragic, sweets. But she makes it tough to be purely sympathetic."

"She does. Dear Lord, she does. She's gotten worse, hasn't she? Since she's gone downhill so fast, I mean. I don't complain like that, do I? Tell me I don't. And please tell me I'm not that myopic about my life."

"You don't. You're not. You could never be."

"You don't resent me the way Roy resented her?"

"Roy resented Susan?"

The elevator door opened. Lauren whispered, "He was no saint," as we stepped into the crowded elevator.

"What?" I asked.

"Later."

We exited the hospital through an open delivery door and walked three blocks out of our way to avoid another ambush from the press.

While we were skirting the eastern edge of the park on Ninth Street, the pager we carried so that the babysitter could reach us vibrated on my belt.

I reached for my hip and said, "It might be Viv." Viv was our babysitter/nanny. She was a young Hmong woman with a heart the size of Southeast Asia. With Lauren heading back to work, we were thrilled that Viv had agreed to continue to watch Grace, who seemed to adore her. While Lauren fumbled in her purse for her phone, I glanced at the number on the screen of the pager. I said, "I don't recognize this phone number," and showed it to Lauren.

"Me neither." She punched the number into her cell phone. A moment later she said, "Cozy? Is that you?"

We took about ten more steps as she listened to whatever Cozier Maitlin had to say. Lauren stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and moved off toward a nearby bench. I sat next to her.

Into the phone, Lauren said, "No, I'm technically off leave until tomorrow… That's right, I'm not officially involved with the case at all. I wouldn't be under any circumstances, Cozy. If Roy's murder doesn't go to a special prosecutor, it's going to be run by whichever member of the triad prevails."

Cozy said something. Lauren nodded. "That's right. Mitchell and Nora. The third player in the triad is Elliot." She listened. "Yes, he has that kind of status in the office. Mitch and Nora are wary of him. That's all it takes. Elliot has his supporters, especially among the younger assistants."

I mimed "What?" at my wife. She ignored me.

Cozy spoke for almost a full minute before Lauren said, "Are you kidding? Me? Why?" She listened, and looked my way, widened her violet eyes, then raised her eyebrows. Behind her, the park was vibrant with activity. Joggers, bladers, bikers, kids in strollers, couples hand in hand. The mountains loomed immense to the west and the brilliant sky was streaked with wispy clouds. The plums and cherries were in bloom and the air was fragrant with honeysuckle. I catalogued it all while I eavesdropped.

"Yes, I promise I'll think about it. You don't have to worry about that. I'm not sure I'll think about anything else. I'll call you later today… Okay, okay, I'll call you before dinner." Pause. "We eat around six, Cozy. I'll phone you before then. Good-bye."

"Well?" I said.

She folded the phone with uncommon deliberation. "Cozier Maitlin just made me an offer. He'd like me to assist him in representing Lucy."

"You're not kidding?"

"I'm serious."

"Can you do that? I mean can an assistant district attorney just cross over and be a defense attorney?"

"People do it all the time when they leave the office. Cozy used to be an assistant DA himself. With one phone call to Mitchell, I could extend my maternity leave. I haven't gotten the impression that the workload's been killing anyone, so I don't think there'd be any objections. Then I suppose I could do anything I wanted. Once Mitchell learned what my actual plans were, he wouldn't like it one bit, but I don't think there's anything he could do about it."

I sat back on the bench and gave her an appraisal that, had I given it to a stranger, would have probably earned me a whole peck of trouble. I said, "You're interested, aren't you?"

She smiled at me. A soft, natural smile that I hadn't seen in a few days. "You know, hon, I think I am."

Lauren didn't have an answer for Cozy before dinner on Sunday. In fact, she still hadn't arrived at a decision by the time I left the house to drive downtown to see my first patient of the week early on Monday morning. Watching her decision-making process had reminded me of accompanying her to buy a new swimsuit just a few days before. She'd tried on ten different suits but nothing was exactly what she wanted. I tried to stay neutral and supportive as she found a flaw in each and every style she squirmed into, some of which I'd found quite fetching. The problem, I'd decided that day, was that nothing fit the image she had of herself at the beach.

And being a defense attorney didn't fit her image of herself as a lawyer. What she did all day Sunday was the equivalent of twirling in front of the mirror trying to make her ass appear smaller, or larger, or whatever the right size for her ass was.

I'm happy to go on the record as stating that I thought her ass was just fine.

The first patient in my clinical psychology practice that Monday morning was due at 8:45. I had five more scheduled before the end of the day, the last session ending at 5:15. If my patients behaved themselves, it would be a relatively easy day.

By the time I'd finished the earliest appointment, a woman I didn't know had left an urgent message on my voice mail requesting a return call as soon as possible. I phoned her back between sessions. She begged me for my first open appointment. I offered her 11:30.

She wasn't available.

What about 3:15?

Sorry.

We settled-me reluctantly, she enthusiastically-on 5:15. My relatively easy day was deteriorating before my eyes. I left a message for Viv letting her know I'd be home a little later than I'd thought.

The offices that I share with another psychologist named Diane Estevez have a simple system for greeting patients. When a patient arrives in the waiting room, he or she flips a switch marked with either my name or Diane's, which illuminates a tiny red light in the corresponding office. At the appointed time, Diane or I go out and retrieve our patient. Saves a fortune in receptionist expenses.

The light indicating the arrival of my 5:15 wasn't illuminated at 5:15. I walked out to the waiting room just in case the new patient-a woman named Naomi Bigg-hadn't mastered the system, which happened sometimes. But the waiting room was empty. I returned to my office, made the next move in the game of phone tag I'd been playing with Lauren all day long, and wrote some notes, stealing frequent looks at the clock. At 5:25, I decided to give my new patient until 5:30 before I headed home. No-show first appointments were a rarity, but a nuisance nonetheless. My personal rule in life was that fifteen minutes was a reasonable amount of time to wait for anyone, for anything, in almost any circumstances.

The light flashed on at 5:27. I was disappointed; I'd crossed the line and was hoping my new patient had changed her mind and wouldn't show. I reluctantly returned to the waiting room, where I greeted a woman who I guessed was about fifty. She was slender and tall and was dressed in a blue gabardine suit. I assumed she was a businesswoman.