Harry pulls into a snow-clogged spot and parks near the steps leading up to the foreboding House of Correction. He leaves the engine running, though, and shifts in his seat to lean against the driver’s side door. It seems he intends to finish his coffee before we go inside. “The guy’s a liar,” he says.

“You don’t know that, Harry. You think he’s lying, but you don’t know it.” Harry and I have had this discussion a hundred times over the course of the past year, but he can’t let it go. It’s eating at him.

“Trust me,” he says. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. Not the way the Rules of Professional Conduct require. There were two people in St. Veronica’s Chapel when it happened. One of them is dead. Holliston is the only living person who was there. No one can prove he’s lying.”

Harry shakes his head and stares into his coffee cup. He’s struggling with the ugly issue that confronts every criminal defense lawyer sooner or later: what to do when you believe—but can’t prove—your client’s story is fabricated. If he could prove it—before Holliston testifies—he could move for permission to withdraw from the case completely. His motion wouldn’t necessarily be granted, but at least he’d have a shot. As it stands, with nothing but his gut telling him his client’s a liar, he’s stuck. And once Holliston testifies, Harry will be stuck for good. At that point, even if he were to discover slam-dunk evidence of perjury, he’d be obligated to keep it to himself. The Massachusetts Canons of Professional Ethics say so.

Harry stares through the now foggy windshield and his eyes settle on the chain-link fence surrounding the House of Correction. The fence is twenty feet high—twenty-two if you count the electrified barbed wire coiled at the top—but Harry doesn’t seem to see an inch of it. He’s preoccupied, brooding even. And I don’t need a crystal ball to tell me his thoughts are back in Chatham, in the center of the small sacristy at St. Veronica’s Chapel.

“I can prove Holliston’s lying,” he says, still staring uphill. “Give me fifteen minutes alone with him—in a dark alley.”

“Listen to yourself, Harry. If you ever got wind of a cop saying something like that, you’d call him a miscreant. You’d raise the courthouse roof to suppress his testimony. And then you’d go after his badge.”

Harry nods, conceding all points, and drains the last of his coffee. “Come on,” he says, dropping the empty cup into a plastic bag dangling from the cigarette lighter. “Let’s get this over with.”

We emerge into the late-day mist and both lock our doors before slamming them shut. Most of the time, Harry doesn’t bother to lock his Jeep. Any thief dumb enough to steal this crate deserves to drive it for a while, he always says. But here in the county complex the rules are different. Harry locks without fail, not because he’s more concerned about car theft here than anywhere else, but because he’d rather not have an unexpected visitor waiting in the backseat when he returns.

The stone steps are covered with snow that melted a little during yesterday’s foray into above-freezing temperatures and then refroze during last night’s return to single digits. I opt to climb the hill beside the steps instead, where my boots can find a little traction in the snow. Harry trudges up the hill too, on the opposite side of the stairs, though he seems oblivious to the icy conditions. He looks down at the shin-high snow, one hand clutching the battered schoolbag he carries in lieu of a briefcase, the other tucked into his coat pocket. “So what did you tell old Chuck?” he asks, glancing sideways at me. “What are his marching orders?”

“I didn’t give him marching orders, Harry.”

“Oh, right.” He removes his free hand from his pocket and taps his temple. “Advice,” he says, feigning the utmost seriousness. “You gave him lawyerly advice. What was it?”

At six feet, 210, Harry has a good half foot and ninety pounds on me. But I’d like to clock him upside the head anyway. “Simple,” I say. “I told our senior senator to keep his mouth shut.”

Harry laughs out loud, sending a cloud of white vapor into the cold air ahead of us. “Simple? Are you serious, Marty? The guy’s been a politician his entire adult life. You think it’s going to be simple for him to keep his mouth shut?”

I walk ahead of Harry as the guard at the front booth presses a button that opens the prison’s enormous double doors, two slabs of black steel in the center of a redbrick mountain. “It better be,” I answer over my shoulder. “The guy’s front and center in a high-profile missing person case. And the young woman’s been gone four days now. He damn well better keep his mouth shut.”

The front desk is manned by two guards who would look ominous even without their shiny weapons. They greet us with silent nods and wait, knowing we’ll jump through the institutional hoops without instruction. We hand over our Massachusetts Bar cards to be checked against the list of warden-approved appointments. We empty our pockets of keys, paper clips, and coins. We turn in our coats, hats, and gloves. I surrender my Lady Smith as well and Harry pulls Derrick Holliston’s thick file from the old schoolbag. The file goes in with us; the bag stays here.

Once each of us is stripped to a single layer of clothes, we’re directed—one at a time—through the metal detector beside the desk. Neither of us sets if off, which comes as a great shock to everyone in the room. This particular machine usually shrieks at all of us—for no apparent reason. A third guard meets us on the other side of it, his expression wary. He looks like he’s about fifteen and his eyes say he’s already made up his mind about Harry and me. Our failure to set off the alarm renders us suspect.

We wait with the vigilant guard—our assigned escort, I presume—while the two at the front desk rummage through Holliston’s file. They seem to think we might have hidden something sinister amid our pretrial motions. A miniature hacksaw, perhaps, along with a diagram of the escape route voted most likely to succeed by the county’s cleverest guests. Minutes pass before they apparently conclude that the overstuffed accordion folder holds nothing of interest. They turn it over to the cautious one, who directs us toward the dingy corridor behind him with a toss of his crew-cut head.

Harry and I lead the way, our escort three paces behind with the file tucked under one arm. “Stop right there,” he orders soon after we pass the first door on our left. We do, knowing he allowed us to walk past our destination on purpose. It’s a device some of them use—mostly the new guys—to avoid ever turning their backs to their charges, no matter who their charges happen to be. His key is already in the lock when we turn to face him. He keeps his focus on us as he opens the door and steps aside. He hands the file to Harry when we approach and Harry enters the meeting room first. As I follow, the young guard assumes a sentinel’s pose in the hallway and gives me a gentlemanly nod.

Our client is already here. Derrick Holliston is seated at a small, banged-up card table and I’m initially surprised to see he’s free of restraints. I shouldn’t be, though. This eight-by-ten room is windowless—the air in it long past stale—and its solitary door locks automatically. The accused isn’t going anywhere.

Harry drops the heavy file onto the table and roots through his jacket pockets until he comes up with his glasses. “This is Marty Nickerson,” he says to Holliston as he puts them on. “She’ll sit second-chair at trial.”

Harry and I frequently second-chair for each other. Limited resources dictate that only one of us actively works each file, but when a trial rolls around, an extra set of eyes and ears can be critical. The second chair also takes a witness or two in most cases, giving lead counsel a much-needed breather. We’ve decided I’ll handle Tommy Fitzpatrick in this one. He’s Chatham’s Chief of Police. And I was an ADA long enough to establish a pretty good rapport with him.