Holliston stares at me for a moment, then turns his attention back to Harry. “Good,” the less-than-satisfied client says. “You need help.”

Harry looks over his glasses at Holliston and smirks, but otherwise lets the remark pass. He sits and starts unpacking the file without a word. I retrieve my own glasses from my jacket pocket and then claim the only remaining seat.

“First of all,” Harry says, opening a manila folder in the middle of the table, “let’s go over the Commonwealth’s offer again.”

“Let’s not,” Holliston says, mimicking Harry’s cadence. “Let’s tell the Commonwealth to stick its lousy offer where the sun don’t shine. I told you—I ain’t doin’ time. Not for this one.”

Harry leans back on two legs of his chair. “You are if you’re convicted,” he says evenly. “You’re doing endless time.”

“Well, now, that’s where you come in, ain’t it? You got a job to do, remember? You’re the guy whose job is to get me off.”

On the surface, Harry appears entirely unaffected by his client’s comments. But I know better. He’d like to deck this smart-ass.

“I’m also the guy who’s supposed to advise you,” he says, his words measured. “And I’m advising you to seriously consider pleading out.”

“Yeah? Well, you can stick your advice right up there with the offer.” Holliston stands, folds his arms against the chest of his orange jumpsuit, and presses his back against the wall. He’s a wiry man, five-ten or so, with a sketchy mustache and greasy brown hair that hangs below his collar. His pallid complexion is partially covered by a five o’clock shadow—yesterday’s and today’s, I’m guessing. “I told you a hundred times,” he says, jutting his chin out at Harry. “No deal. What’re you, deaf?”

Holliston reaches up to the low, suspended ceiling and dislodges one fiberglass square. He peers into the opening, presumably expecting to find the treasure he stashed up there the last time he was here.

“Did you lose something?” Harry asks.

Holliston glares at him like an impudent child. “No, I dint lose nothing,” he says. He goes back to examining the gap he created, appearing to be in no hurry to continue our discussion. “I was an electrician in a prior life,” he says. “I like wires.”

Harry laughs. “I’m surprised you had a job in your prior life,” he says. “That’s more than you can say this time around.”

Holliston glares at him again.

“What’s the offer?” I ask them both.

“What’s the difference?” Holliston demands.

“Humor me,” I tell him. “Generally speaking, I try to learn a fact or two about each case before trial begins. Crazy, I know.”

“Murder two,” Harry says. “Eligible for parole in fifteen. And he’ll get it if he keeps his hands clean and his mouth zipped.”

“You can’t not consider it,” I tell Holliston.

He turns toward me, his eyes wild, apparently infuriated by my audacity. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it,” he says.

“You’re wrong there,” I tell him, meeting his angry eyes. “I know a few things. I know you’re looking at life if you get bagged for murder one, for instance. I know life means life, as in, until you draw your last breath behind bars. And I know this deal gets you out in your late thirties—still young enough to build a decent future. Only a complete fool would reject it out of hand.”

Holliston snorts and spreads his arms wide, as if he’s onstage and the house is sold out. “What’s with you people?” he asks. “First I get this guy”—he tosses his head toward Harry—“wantin’ to sell me down the river. And now you come in here tellin’ me I don’t need to have a life till fifteen years from now. What the hell kind of sorry lawyers are you? Ever hear of stickin’ up for your client, for Chrissake?”

“Advising you is part of our job,” Harry tries again.

“And you already done that part,” Holliston fires back. “I ain’t takin’ your advice. And I’m the boss here. So give it a rest. Get to the other part of your job. Tellin’ me how to tell them people what happened that night. I want it done right. I want everything crystal clear. And I don’t want nothin’ left out.”

Harry drums his fingers on the table and his eyes move to mine. He’s resigned. Holliston is correct; at this particular point in the process, he is the boss. He claims he acted only as necessary to preserve his own life. If the jury believes him, he’ll walk away a free man. And like it or not, we have a duty to try to make that happen.

Harry stops drumming and again leans back on the two rear legs of his chair, staring at Holliston. He cups his hands behind his head, fingers laced, elbows akimbo, and takes a deep breath. “Go ahead,” he says to our system-savvy client at last. “Tell us your tale.”

Chapter 4

My son is a freshman at Boston College. He finished first-semester finals on Friday and he’s home now for winter break. I’m surprised to see his pickup in the driveway of our Windmill Lane cottage, though, when Harry and I pull up at six o’clock. I thought Luke would be out with his buddies by now, cruising Main Street or shooting pool at the Piping Plover Pub.

Harry and I hang our damp coats on hooks inside the kitchen door before we wander into the living room. The woodstove is crackling and the TV is on—local news just beginning—but no one’s watching. Luke hustles down the stairs and Danny Boy, our twelve-year-old Irish setter, saunters behind, his tail wagging instantly at the sight of his buddy Harry. “Mom,” Luke says as his six-foot-three frame stoops in front of the mirror above the couch, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

This sentiment can mean only one thing: my son is broke.

“Could you float me some cash?” he asks, running one hand through the thin black locks he inherited from me. “I’ll pay you back when I’m working.”

“And when will that be?” I know the answer, of course. No time soon. Long after this loan and dozens of others have faded from memory.

He tugs at his chin, struggling to figure out the answer to my perplexing question. “Summer,” he says. “I’ll pay you back in the summer.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was serious. I find a twenty in my jacket pocket and hand it to him.

He winces.

“What?” I ask. “You need more?”

“Maybe another?” he says, his voice pleading.

“Another what?”

“Another twenty?” He squints when he says this, almost closing his eyes against his own request.

“You need forty bucks?”

“I have a date,” he says, “and I want to take her someplace decent.”

Harry pulls his tattered wallet from his back pants pocket and presses a second twenty into Luke’s palm. “I’ll contribute,” Harry says. “Young love is one of my favorite causes.”

I expect Luke to balk at the mention of love, but he doesn’t. “Hey, thanks,” he says instead, punching Harry on the arm. “I’m good for it. Honest.”

Harry flops down in the middle of the couch, props his feet on the coffee table, and spreads his arms out across the top cushions. Danny Boy hops up and sits beside him, then curls into a big ball and rests his graying head on Harry’s lap. They both watch Luke stoop again to double-check his hair in the mirror. “Who is she?” Harry laughs, scratching Danny Boy’s ears. “Who’s the lucky lass?”

“You won’t believe it,” Luke says, grabbing his parka from the closet under the stairs. “She’s the Senator’s daughter. And she’s great.”

I freeze. “Which senator?”

“Kendrick,” he answers, zipping his coat. “Abby Kendrick. I just met her a few days ago.”