But I don’t, so I eventually return to the City, where my notoriety instantly catches up to me.

2.

About a year ago, a young woman named Jiliana Kemp was abducted as she was leaving a hospital after visiting a friend. Her car was found untouched on the third floor of a parking garage next to the hospital. Surveillance cameras caught her walking toward her car but lost her as she stepped out of range. The footage from all fourteen cameras was analyzed. It captured the license plates of every vehicle coming and going for a twenty-four-hour period, and revealed only one significant clue. An hour after Jiliana was seen walking to her car, a blue Ford SUV left the parking deck. The driver was a white male wearing a baseball cap and glasses. The SUV had stolen license plates from Iowa. During the night, the attendants saw nothing suspicious, and the one who took the ticket from the white male did not remember him. Forty vehicles had passed through the exit gate in the hour preceding the SUV’s departure.

Detectives scoured every inch of the garage and found nothing. Her abductor made no demand for ransom. The search went from frantic to futile. An initial reward of $100,000 provoked no response. Two weeks later, the blue SUV was found abandoned in a state park a hundred miles away. It had been stolen a month earlier in Texas. Its license plates were from Pennsylvania, stolen of course.

The abductor was playing games. He had wiped the SUV clean; no prints, no hairs, no blood, nothing. His range, along with his planning, terrified the investigators. They were not chasing an ordinary criminal.

Adding to the urgency was the fact that Jiliana Kemp’s father is one of the City’s two assistant chiefs of police. Needless to say, the case was given the highest priority by the department. What was not made public at the time was that Jiliana was three months pregnant. As soon as she disappeared, her live-in boyfriend told her parents about the pregnancy. They kept this quiet as the police worked around the clock to find her.

Jiliana has not been heard from. Her body has not been found. She’s probably dead, but when was she murdered? The worst possible scenario is also the most obvious: She wasn’t killed immediately but was held captive until after she gave birth.

Nine months after her disappearance, as the reward money continued to pile up, a tip led the police to a pawnshop not far from my apartment building. A gold necklace with a small Greek coin had been pawned for $200. Jiliana’s boyfriend identified the necklace as the one he’d given her the previous Christmas. In a full-court press, detectives worked furiously to establish a chain of possession. It led to another pawnshop, to another transaction, and finally to a suspect named Arch Swanger.

A thirty-one-year-old drifter with no apparent means of support, Swanger had a history of petty thievery and small-time drug dealing. He lived in a run-down trailer park with his mother, who was a drunk drawing disability checks. After a month of intense surveillance and scrutiny, Swanger was finally brought in for questioning. He was evasive and coy, and after two hours of fruitless interrogation clammed up and demanded a lawyer. With little hard evidence, the police let him go but continued to monitor his every movement. Still, he managed to slip away several times, but always returned home.

Last week, they picked him up again for questioning. He demanded a lawyer.

“Okay, who’s your lawyer?” the detective asked.

“That guy named Rudd, Sebastian Rudd.”

3.

The last thing I need is more trouble with the police. But, as we say in the trade, we don’t always get to choose our clients. And every defendant, regardless of how despicable the person or his crime, is entitled to a lawyer. Most laymen don’t understand this and don’t care. I don’t care either. This is my job. To be honest, I’m initially thrilled Swanger picked me, thrilled to be allowed to stick my nose smack in the middle of another sensational case.

This one, though, will haunt me forever. I’ll curse the day I hustled over to Central to have my first chat with Arch Swanger.

The police department has more leaks than old plumbing, and by the time I arrive at Central word is out. A reporter with a cameraman catches me as I enter the building and demands to know if I represent Arch Swanger. I offer a rude “No comment” and keep walking. From that moment on, though, everyone in town knows I’m his lawyer. It’s a perfect fit, right? A monstrous murderer and the rogue lawyer who’ll defend anyone.

I’ve strolled through Central many times, and the place is always bustling with an urgent energy. Street cops in uniforms rush around, bantering crudely with those stuck behind desks. Detectives in cheap suits swagger through the halls, scowling as if they’re pissed at the world. Frightened families sit on benches waiting for bad news. And there’s always a lawyer huddled up with a cop in a tense negotiation, or hurrying to get to a client before he spills his guts.

Today, the air is especially heavy, the mood tense. I get more stares than usual when I walk through the front door. And why not? They’ve caught the killer; he’s just down the hall. And here comes his lawyer to save him. Both should be grabbed and put on the rack.

Present too is the lingering rawness of the Renfro trial. It was only three weeks ago and cops have long memories. Some of these guys would like to take a nightstick and break a few of my bones, or worse.

They lead me through the maze to the interrogation rooms. Down the hall, smoking and looking into a one-way mirror, are two homicide detectives. One is Landy Reardon, the cop who called me with the news that, out of all the lawyers in the City, I had been chosen. Reardon is the best homicide detective in the department. He’s nearing retirement now and the years have taken their toll. He’s about sixty but looks ten years older, with thick white hair that goes untouched for the most part. He still smokes and has the jagged wrinkles as proof.

He sees me and nods. Come on over. The other detective disappears.

The good thing about Landy Reardon is that he is brutally honest and will not waste time on a case he can’t prove. He digs hard for the evidence, but if it’s not there, then it’s not there. In thirty years, he’s never charged the wrong murder suspect. But if Landy collars you for murder, the judge and jury will fall in line and you’ll probably die in prison.

He’s had the Jiliana Kemp case since the beginning. Four months ago, he had a mild heart attack and his doctor told him to retire. He found another doctor. I stand beside him and both of us look through the mirror. We do not say hello. He thinks all defense lawyers are scum and would never stoop to shake my hand.

Swanger is alone in the interrogation room. He’s kicked back in his folding chair and has his feet on the table, totally bored with everything. “What’s he said?” I ask.

“Nothing. Name, rank, and serial number, and after that he called for you. Said he saw your name in the newspaper.”

“So he can read?”

“IQ of 130, I’d guess. He just looks stupid.”

Indeed he does. Plump with a double chin; large brown freckles from the neck up; head practically shaved but for a few waxed bristles, like the old butch crew cut from sixty years ago, pre-Beatles. To attract either attention or ridicule, he is wearing a pair of round-frame glasses, absurdly large and aqua blue in color.