"Maybe it was him," she admitted. "But, as you know, I don't think there's any way even Van Rawlins would allow that information into court, even if they had conclusive proof against you, which they don't."

"Listen," the professor said. "They're going to use People v. Molineux to try and get it in under common plan or scheme. It's an old case from New York around the turn of the twentieth century. But you're right, it shouldn't succeed, although with Rawlins we'll want to make your brief airtight. Go right to Krulewitch v. U.S., it's a Supreme Court decision, and make sure you pay careful attention to Jackson 's concurring opinion. From there, well, you know how to search out other relevant cases…"

Casey nodded that she did. She couldn't help being impressed by his instant recollection of specific cases on an isolated legal issue. She had always known he was brilliant. Students at the law school invariably said he had a photographic memory. She had doubted that until he appeared at a third-year student's graduation party one May afternoon. After a few drinks, Lipton began to show off his memory by answering questions about the phone book. Casey didn't believe it was anything more than a trick until she took the book and showed him page 187 for all of three seconds. After taking the book away, Casey eyed him warily and asked what was the number of Alan Cutler. Lipton rattled it off at once.

Suddenly she was ashamed of ever having doubted her former professor's innocence. She hoped the suspicion in her voice hadn't been noticeable.

"How is everything?" she said haltingly, hoping to rebuild any rapport she might have damaged with her suspicious questioning. "I mean, in here, in the safety building."

"Oh, it's not unlike the county jail," he told her with a forced smile. "But I'm looking forward to being out. I"-a silly little chortle escaped Lipton's throat and he looked at her slyly-"I'm looking forward to having a woman again, my dear. I am a man of passionate humors. I want a woman and a good Cuban cigar, a Cohiba to be exact, and a bottle of Opus merlot.

"Is it difficult for you to think of my earthly desires?" he said, laughing softly again. He was obviously enjoying himself.

"Of course not," she said uncomfortably. In truth, any talk about someone else's sex life made her cringe. Just as unsettling was his sudden gleeful conviviality, and she wished she'd never taken their conversation into personal territory. During all their previous interactions, he had maintained the detached posture of a pedagogue, treating her like an eager student. She much preferred that, however, to his intimacy.

"Good," he said lightly. "I like a woman who isn't a prude. Is your little assistant a prude?"

Casey was stunned by the question.

"I don't think Patti's personal characteristics are anything we need to discuss, Professor Lipton," she said reservedly.

"But why not?" Lipton said. "Why can't we have a little gossip between us? It's always business, but we know each other well enough now to be beyond that. Is she an aggressive young woman? I know she is subordinate to you, but I presume she must have some tenacity or you wouldn't tolerate her."

"Really, Professor," Casey said with an uncomfortable laugh that was aimed for levity. She got up from her chair and said, "I have work to do. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon for the hearing."

"What are you going to do about the media?" Lipton asked her before she could get away.

"In what way?" she asked, turning.

"Hopewood will leak this story," he told her, "about the girl in Atlanta. Rawlins won't let this into the hearing, but everyone will know about it. People will pass judgment, the same way you did…"

"I… I can't help you there, Professor," she said. "I can only win your case."

"Yes, well, a good word from you on the record might go a long way," he said wistfully, "for when I'm out…"

After her expected victory in the hearing on whether to allow the Atlanta killing into evidence, Casey focused all her energy on preparations for the prosecution's final witnesses. Since the silence between her and Taylor had continued, she didn't bother to call, even though she didn't get home until long after he was in bed. With the help of Tony and Patti Dunleavy, she went over every possible turn the following day might take. She knew Hopewood had saved the best for last.

The next day, the prosecutor played his two final cards. Donald Sales was his ace. He would go last and hopefully elicit the jury's inexorable desire to punish someone. But first up was Detective Sergeant Bolinger. He was as credible a witness as Casey had suspected he would be. A seasoned cop who'd been on the stand hundreds of times, Bolinger came across as tough and smart, the kind of police officer people wanted out there keeping the streets safe.

Casey watched him carefully. With Hopewood's lead, the two of them wove a perfectly cohesive tale unveiling the prosecution's theory as to how Lipton had committed the crime. They skillfully rehashed the gruesome testimony already given by Alice Vreeland of the medical examiner's office, re-creating the picture of a young girl who was choked into submission, horrifyingly bound with tape, and then slowly and painfully eviscerated with a sharp instrument until she died.

When the physical evidence was out of the way, Bolinger then helped the DA paint a damning portrait of Lipton as a lying egomaniac who thought he could outsmart the rest of the world because of his intellectual powers. Bolinger was obviously proud of the way he had noticed Lipton's slip of the tongue, proving his knowledge of the crime during their very first encounter, and of the way the police had been able to match the murder with Lipton's unrelated hit-and-run. Farnhorst had already given a vivid recollection of Lipton's attempted escape, but Bolinger added to that by recounting the professor's snide remarks when questioned about Marcia Sales's bloody panties.

When Casey stood for the cross, Bolinger turned her way with a reptilian gaze that made her waver. But it was only a moment before she honed in on destroying the detective and his testimony. That's what she did best, and even the formidable Bolinger wasn't going to keep her from doing her job. Casey stood up. She had pulled back her hair and piled it high on her head. Her long white neck and her regal bearing made her seem taller than she really was. Dressed in a tailored chocolate suit and heels, she was an impressive sight to the jury. She was a woman in total control.

"You've done this a lot, haven't you, Sergeant?" Casey began.

"What would 'this' be?" Bolinger wanted to know. He wasn't going to make it easy.

"This," Casey said, spreading her arms to encompass the entire courtroom, "testifying in a case, being cross-examined by a defense attorney."

"Yes, I have."

"And you don't like it, do you, Sergeant?" she said.

"It's all right," he replied.

"You don't like having your work questioned by someone like me, though, do you?"

"No, I don't think anyone likes to have their work questioned."

"You don't like it when an attorney points out all the things you've done wrong, do you?"

"I haven't done anything wrong," Bolinger said, bristling a little.

"No?" Casey said, arching her eyebrow and giving the jury a knowing look. "But we all make mistakes, don't we, Sergeant? I know I do from time to time. You're not telling us you're perfect, are you, Sergeant?"

"No. I'm not."

"Because you make mistakes, isn't that right?"

"I suppose," Bolinger said sullenly. "Like everyone else."

"Yes, that's what I said, like everyone else," Casey said with a pleasant smile. "You make mistakes and you don't like to have them pointed out… You made a lot of mistakes in this case, didn't you, Sergeant?"