Just a little pretrial motion in a dime-a-dozen case. The big man has better things to do with his time, dont you, Bobby? said Fiske.

Maybe I had an inkling that you were going to chew up and spit out one of my baby lawyers. It wouldnt have been so easy if youd been up against a real attorney.

Who, like you?

With a wry smile, Graham put the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Here we are, living in arguably the damned tobacco capital of the world, the biggest cigarette manufacturing facility on the planet just a spit on down the road, and one cant even smoke in the halls of justice. He chewed on the end of his unfiltered Pall Mall, noisily sucking in the nicotine. Actually there were still designated smoking areas in the Richmond court building, only not where Graham happened to be standing. The prosecutor let slip a triumphant grin. Oh, by the way, Jerome Hicks was picked up this morning on suspicion of murdering a guy over on Southside. Black on black, drugs involved. Wow, what a surprise. Apparently he wanted to increase his inventory of coke and didnt want to go through the normal acquisition channels. Only your guy didnt know we had his target staked out.

Fiske wearily leaned up against the wall. Court victories were often empty, particularly when your client couldnt keep a lid on his felonious impulses. Really? Thats the first Ive heard about it.

I was coming down here anyway for a pretrial conference, thought Id fill you in. Professional courtesy.

Right, Fiske said dryly. If thats the case, why did you let Paulies motion go forward? When Graham didnt respond, Fiske answered his own question. Just making me jump through the hoops?

A mans got to have some fun with his work.

Fiske balled up a fist, and then just as quickly he uncurled it. Graham wasnt worth it. Well, as a professional courtesy, were there any eyewitnesses?

Oh, about a half dozen, murder weapon found in Jeromes car, along with Jerome. He almost ran down two policemen trying to get away. Weve got blood, the drugs, the whole candy store, really. Guy shouldnt have been granted bail in the first place. Anyway, Ive a mind to drop this rinky-dink distribution charge youre representing him on and just focus on this new development. Got to maximize my scarce resources. Hicks is a bad one, John. I think were gonna have to seek a capital murder indictment on this one.

Capital case? Come on, Bobby.

The willful, deliberate and premeditated killing of any person in the commission of a robbery equals capital murder equals death penalty. At least thats what my Virginia statute book says.

I dont give a shit what the law says, hes only eighteen years old.

Grahams face tensed. Funny talk coming from a lawyer, an officer of the court.

The laws a sieve I have to slip my facts through, because my facts always suck.

Theyre scum. Come out of the womb looking to hurt people. We oughta start building baby prisons before the sonsofbitches can really hurt anybody.

Jerome Hickss entire life can be summed up

Right, blame it on his piss-poor childhood,

Graham interrupted. Same old story.

Thats right,sameold story. Graham smiled and shook his head. Look, I didnt grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth, okay? Wanta know my secret? I worked my ass off. If I can do it, they damn well can too. Case closed.

Fiske started to walk off and then looked back. Let me take a look at the arrest report and Ill call you.

We got nothing to talk about.

Killing him wont get you the AG slot, Bobby, you know that. Aim higher. Fiske turned and walked away. Graham twisted the cigarette between his fingers. Try getting a real job, Fiske. *����*����* A half hour later, John Fiske was at a suburban county jail meeting with one of his clients. His practice often took him outside of Richmond, to the counties of Henrico, Chesterfield, Hanover, even Goochland. His ever-expanding pool of work was not something he was particularly pleased about, but it was like the sun rising. It would continue until the day it stopped for good.

Ive got a plea to talk to you about, Derek.

Derek Brown or DB1, as he was known on the street was a light-skinned black, with tattoos of hate, obscenity and poetry running down his arms. He spent enough time in jail to be buffed; wormy veins split his biceps. Fiske had once seen Derek playing basketball in the jails recreation yard, shirt off, well muscled, more tattoos on his back and shoulders. It looked like a damn musical score from a distance. Rising from the air like a jet on takeoff, gliding smooth, held up by something Fiske couldnt see, the guards and other cons turning to look in admiration, the young man slammed the ball home, finishing with high-fives all around. Never good enough, though, to play college ball, much less NBA. So here they were looking at each other in the county lockup.

ACAs offered malicious wounding, Class Three felony.

Why not Class Six?

Fiske stared at him. These guys were in and out of the criminal system so often they knew the criminal code better than most lawyers.

Class Six is heat of the moment. Your heat came the next day.

He had a gun. I aint going up against Pack when he got his shooter and I aint got mine. What, you stupid?

Fiske wanted to reach across and wipe the mans attitude right off his face. Sorry, the Commonwealth isnt budging from Class Three.

How much time? Derek said stonily. His ears were pierced, by Fiskes count twelve times.

Five, with time already served.

Bullshit. Five years for cutting somebody a little with a damn pocketknife?

Stiletto, six-inch blade. And you stabbed him ten damn times. In front of witnesses.

Shit, he was feeling up my bitch. Aint that a defense?

Youre lucky youre not looking at murder in the first, Derek. The docs said it was a miracle the guy didnt bleed to death right there on the street. And if Pack werent such a dangerous slimeball you wouldnt just be looking at malicious wounding either. You couldve been looking at aggravated malicious wounding. Thats twenty to life. You know that.

Messing with my bitch. Derek leaned forward and popped his bony knuckles to emphasize the absolute logic of both his legal and moral positions. Derek had a good-paying job, Fiske knew, albeit an illegal one. He was a first lieutenant for the number two drug distribution ring in Richmond, hence his street name of DB1. Turbo was the boss, all of twenty-four years old. His empire was well organized, discipline enforced, and included the facade of legality with dry-cleaning operations, a caf�a pawnshop, and a stable of accountants and lawyers to deal with the drug funds after they had been laundered. Turbo was a very smart young man, good head for numbers and business. Fiske had always wanted to ask him why he didnt try running a Fortune 500 company. The pay was almost as good, and the mortality rate was considerably lower. Normally, Turbo would have one of his three-hundred-dollar-an-hour Main or Franklin Street lawyers take care of Derek. But Dereks offense was unrelated to Turbos business, so that accommodation had not been made. Sloughing him off to someone like Fiske was a form of punishment for Derek doing something as stupid as losing his head over a female. Turbo had no reason to fear Dereks turning snitch. The prosecutor hadnt even made any noises along those lines, knowing it was futile. You talk, you die in or out of prison, it made no difference. Derek had grown up in a nice middle-class neighborhood, with nice middle-class parents, before he decided to drop out of high school and take the easy route of drug dealing over actually working for a living. He had every advantage, could have done anything with his life. There were just enough Derek Browns around to make the world largely apathetic to the horrific lives of the kids who turned to the sugar-elixir provided by people like Turbo. Which made Fiske want to take Derek out to an alley late at night with a baseball bat in hand and teach the young man some good old-fashioned values.