They fell into silence. Cases went by-a breaking and entering, a couple of assaults, too many car thefts. Every suspect looked young, guilty, and angiy. Always scowling. Tough guys. Myron tried not to make a face, tried to remember innocent until proven guilty, tried to remember that Esperanza too was a suspect. But it didn't help much.

Finally Myron saw Hester Crimstein sweep into the courtroom, decked out in her best professional civvies: a sleek beige suit, cream blouse, and a tad overcoiffed, over-frosted hair. She took her spot at the defense table, and the room fell silent. Two guards led Esperanza through an open door. Myron saw her, and something akin to a mule kicked him in the chest.

Esperanza was dressed in a court-issued fluorescent orange jumpsuit. Forget gray or stripes-if a prisoner wanted to escape, he was going to stick out like a neon light in a monastery. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. Myron knew that Esperanza was petite-maybe five-two, a hundred pounds-but he had never seen her look so small. She kept her head high, defiant. Classic Esperanza. If she was afraid, she wasn't showing it.

Hester Crimstein put a comforting hand on her client's shoulder. Esperanza nodded at her. Myron tried desperately to catch her eye. It took a couple of moments, but eventually Esperanza turned his way, looking straight at him with a slight, resigned, I'm-okay smile. It made Myron feel better.

The bailiff called out, “The People versus Esperanza Diaz.”

“What's the charge?” the judge asked.

The assistant district attorney, a fresh-faced kid who barely looked old enough to sport a pubic hair, stood by a pedestal. “Murder in the second degree, Your Honor.”

“How do you plead?”

Esperanza's voice was strong. “Not guilty.”

“Bail?”

The fresh-faced kid said, “Your Honor, the People request that Ms. Diaz be remanded without bail.”

Hester Crimstein shouted, “What?” as if she had just heard the most irrational and dangerous words any human being had ever uttered under any circumstance.

Fresh Face was unfazed. “Miss Diaz is accused of killing a man by shooting him three times. We have strong evidence-”

“They have nothing, Your Honor. Circumstantial nothings.”

“Miss Diaz has no family and no real roots in the community,” Fresh Face continued. “We believe that she presents a substantial flight risk.”

“That's nonsense, Your Honor. Miss Diaz is a partner in a major sports representation firm in Manhattan. She is a law school graduate who is currently studying for the bar. She has many friends and roots in the community. And she has no record whatsoever.”

“But, Your Honor, she has no family-”

“So what?” Crimstein interrupted. “Her mother and father are dead. Is that now a reason to punish a woman? Dead parents? This is outrageous, Your Honor.”

The judge, a woman in her early fifties, sat back. “Your request to deny bail does seem extreme,” she said to Fresh Face.

“Your Honor, we believe that Miss Diaz has an unusual amount of resources at her disposal and very good reasons to flee the jurisdiction.”

Crimstein kept up with the apoplectic. “What are you talking about?”

“The murder victim, Mr. Haid, has recently withdrawn cash funds in excess of two hundred thousand dollars. That money is missing from his apartment. It's logical to assume that the money was taken during the commission of the murder-”

“What logic?” Crimstein shouted. “Your Honor, this is nonsense.”

“Counsel for the defense mentioned that Miss Diaz has friends in the community,” Fresh Face continued. “Some of them are here, including her employer, Myron Bolitar.” He pointed to Myron. All eyes turned. Myron stayed very still. “Our investigation shows that Mr. Bolitar has been missing for at least a week, perhaps in the Caribbean, even in the Cayman Islands.”

“So what?” Crimstein shouted. “Arrest him if that's a crime.”

But Fresh Face was not done. “And next to him is Miss Diaz's friend Windsor Lockwood of Lock-Home Securities.” When all eyes turned to Win, he nodded and gave a small regal wave. “Mr. Lockwood was the victim's financial adviser and held the account where the two hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn.”

“So arrest him too,” Crimstein ranted. “Your Honor, this has nothing to do with my client, except maybe to prove her innocence. Miss Diaz is a hardworking Hispanic woman who struggled her way through law school at night. She has no record and should be freed immediately. Short of that, she has a right to reasonable bail.”

“Your Honor, there's just too much cash floating around,” Fresh Face said. “The missing two hundred thousand dollars. Miss Diaz's possible connection with both Mr. Bolitar and, of course, Mr. Lockwood, who comes from one of the wealthiest families in the region-”

“Wait a second, Your Honor. First, the district attorney suggests that Miss Diaz has stolen and hidden away this alleged missing money and will use it to run. Then he suggests that she'll ask Mr. Lockwood, who is no more than a business associate, for the funds. Which is it? And while the district attorney's office is busy trying to manufacture some kind of money conspiracy, why would one of the already wealthiest men in the country deem it appropriate to conspire with a poor Hispanic woman to steal? The whole idea is ludicrous. The prosecution has no case, so they've come up with this money nonsense that sounds as plausible as an Elvis sighting-”

“Enough,” the judge said. She leaned back and strummed her fingers on the big desk. She stared at Win for a second, then back at the defense table, “The missing money troubles me,” she said.

“Your Honor, I assure you that my client knows nothing about any money.”

“I'd be surprised if your position were different, Ms. Crimstein. But the facts presented by the district attorney are sufficiently tropblesome. Bail denied.”

Crimstein's eyes widened. “Your Honor, this is an out-rage-”

“No need to shout, Counselor. I hear you just fine.”

“I strenuously object-”

“Save it for the cameras, Ms. Crimstein.” The judge hit the gavel. “Next case?”

Suppressed mumbles broke forth. Big Cyndi started wailing like a widow in a war newsreel. Hester Crimstein put her mouth to Esperanza's ear and whispered something. Esperanza nodded, but it didn't look like she was listening. The guards led Esperanza toward a door. Myron tried to catch her eyes again, but she didn't-or maybe wouldn't-face him.

Hester Crimstein turned and shot Myron a glare so nasty it almost made him duck. She approached him and fought to keep her face neutral. “Room seven,” she said to Myron, not looking at him, barely moving her lips. “Down the hallway and to the left. Five minutes. Don't say anything to anyone.”

Myron did not bother with a nod.

Crimstein hurried out, already starting with the no comments before she hit the door. Win sighed, took a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket, began to scribble something down.

“What are you doing?” Myron asked.

“You'll see.”

It did not take long. Two plainclothes cops accompanied by the stench of cheap cologne made their approach. Homicide division, no doubt. Before they could even introduce themselves, Win said, “Are we under arrest?”

The cops looked confused. Then one said, “No.”

Win smiled and handed him the piece of paper.

“What the hell is this?”

“Our attorney's phone number,” Win said. He rose and ushered Myron toward the door. “Have a special day.”

They arrived in the defendant's conference room before the anointed five minutes. The room was empty.

“Clu withdrew cash?” Myron said.

“Yes,” Win said.

“You knew about it?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“The district attorney said two hundred thousand dollars. I have no reason to quibble with that estimate.”