He drops me off in front of the university’s aquatic center and leaves in search of a suitable parking place. I drift inside, hear the echoing voices, find the pool, and send a text message to Moss Korgan. Swarms of small, skinny kids are heavily involved in a swim meet. The bleachers are half-packed with noisy parents. A breaststroke race is under way and little girls splash and kick in all eight lanes of the fifty-meter pool.

Moss replies, “Right side, third section, top row.”

I look and see no one, but I’m sure he’s watching. I’m wearing a leather jacket with my long hair under the collar, along with jeans and a blue-and-orange Mets cap. This is really not my crowd and I don’t expect to be recognized, but I rarely take chances. Just last week Partner and I were having a sandwich in a café when a jerk walked over and informed me that, in his opinion, my little cage fighter should rot in jail for the rest of his life. I thanked him and asked him to please leave us alone. He called me a crook. Partner stood and the guy got lost.

As I climb the steps I get a nose full of the smell of chlorine. Starcher once mentioned swimming, but one of his mothers told him the sport was too dangerous because of all the chemicals they put in the water. I’m surprised they don’t keep the kid in a bubble.

I sit alone for a moment, far away from anyone else, and watch the action in the pool. The parents yell and the noise gets louder and louder until it suddenly stops and the race is over. The kids pull themselves out of the water as their mothers wait with towels and advice. From here, they appear to be about ten years old.

Moss rises from a group of parents across the pool and slowly walks around it. He climbs the bleachers in front of me and eventually takes a seat, about three feet away. His body language says it all—he hates where he is and would rather be talking to a serial killer. “This better be good, Rudd,” he says without looking at me.

“And hello to you too, Moss. Which one is your kid?” Stupid question; there are about a thousand of them down there crawling around the pool.

“That one,” he says with a slight nod. What a smart-ass, but then I asked for it. “She’s a twelve-year-old freestyler. Won’t get wet for another thirty minutes. Can we get on with this?”

“I have another deal for you, and it’s even more complicated than the last one.”

“That’s what you said. I almost hung up, Rudd, until you mentioned the Kemp girl. Let’s have it.”

“Swanger tracked me down again. We met. He claims to know where she is, that she went full term with the pregnancy, the baby got sold by some traffickers who feed her heroin in exchange for all manner of sexual activities.”

“Swanger is a proven liar.”

“He certainly is but some of what he says is true.”

“Why did he contact you?”

“He says he needs help and, not surprisingly, he needs money. There’s a chance he’ll contact me again, and if he does I can possibly put the police on his trail. That trail might lead to Jiliana Kemp, or not. There’s no way to know, but right now the police have nothing else.”

“So you’re sacrificing your client again.”

“He’s not my client. I made that clear to him. He may think of me as his lawyer, but it’s a waste of time to analyze what Arch Swanger might be thinking.”

A loud buzzer goes off and eight boys plunge into the water. Instantly, the parents start yelling, as if the kids can hear them. Other than “Swim faster!” what can you scream at a splashing kid in the heat of a race? We watch them until they make the turn. Moss says, “And what do you want from us?”

“I go to trial Monday with my cage fighter. I want a better deal. I want a five-year plea bargain with a guarantee that he serves his time in the county penal farm. It’s a softer place. There’s a nice gym. The kid can stay in shape, serve about eighteen months, get paroled when he’s, say, twenty-four, and still have a future in the ring. Otherwise, he’ll serve fifteen and come out a hardened street thug with only one thing on his mind—more crime.”

He’s already rolling his eyes. He exhales in disbelief, as if everything I’ve just said is a complete joke. He shakes his head; I must be an idiot.

Finally, with great effort, he manages to say, “We have no control over the prosecutor. You know that.”

“Mancini was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council, same as you. Our interim police chief was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council. Same for Roy Kemp, who’s still on leave. Can’t we find a way to work together here?”

“Mancini won’t listen to Woody. He hates him.”

“Everybody hates Woody, and he hates everybody right back. Somehow he’s survived three terms. Here’s how you sell it to Woody. Are you listening?”

He has yet to look at me, but now he turns and glares. He looks back at the pool and crosses his arms over his chest, my signal to spill it.

“Okay, play along, Moss, help me walk through this. Let’s assume I can lead the cops to Swanger, assume further that Swanger can lead the cops to Jiliana Kemp. Somewhere in west-central Chicago, by the way. Assume they rescue the girl, and guess what? Our beloved mayor, the Honorable L. Woodrow Sullivan III, gets to hold the first press conference. Imagine that scene, Moss. You know how Woody loves a press conference. It will be his finest moment. Woody in a dark suit, all smiles, a row of cops behind him, all grim-faced but happy because the girl has been saved. Woody makes the announcement as if he personally found her and pulled off the miracle. An hour later we get our first glimpse of the happy Kemp family reunited, with Woody, of course, wedging himself into the photo as only he can do. What a moment!”

Moss softens a bit as he absorbs this visual. It rattles around his brain. He wants to dismiss it and tell me to go to hell, but it’s simply too rich. Creativity fails him, as usual, so he simply says, “You’re crazy, Rudd.”

No surprise. I press on with “Since we’re grasping for the truth here, and making bold assumptions, let’s say that Swanger is not lying. If so, Jiliana is one of many girls snatched from their families and sold into bondage. Almost all are white American girls. If their ring is busted and the traffickers are caught, then the story echoes from coast to coast. Woody gets more than his share of the credit; certainly enough to shine in this town.”

“Mancini will never go along.”

“Then fire Mancini. On the spot. Call him on the carpet and force his resignation. The mayor has that power under our version of democracy. Replace him with one of those little ass-kissing bureaucrats. There are only a hundred of them.”

“I think there are fifteen,” he says.

“Sorry. So out of fifteen assistant city prosecutors, I’m sure you and Woody can find one with a bit of ambition, one who’ll do what you tell him or her to do in exchange for the big office. Come on, Moss, this is not that complicated.”

He leans forward, deep in thought, elbows on knees. The noise fades. The crowd goes quiet as one race ends and the next one starts to get organized. Thankfully, I’ve never been to a swim meet, but it appears as if this ordeal goes on for hours. I thank Starcher’s mothers and their fear of chlorine.

He needs some help, so I prod on. “Woody has the power, Moss. He can make this happen.”

“Why does it have to be a deal? Why can’t you just do the right thing and cooperate with the police? If you believe Swanger, and if he’s really not your client, then help out the cops here. Hell, you’re talking about an innocent young woman.”

“Because I don’t work that way,” I say, though I’ve lost sleep trying to answer his question. “I have a client to represent, one who’s guilty, as most are, and I’m desperate for ways to help him. I don’t get clients who have the potential to make a lot of money, legally, but this kid is different. He could lift himself and his rather large and growing family out of the ghetto.”