"Call me Chief Stone."

"Don't get hard-assed with me, chief," Fogarty said.

"You don't have a case will stand up in court. You didn't read them their Miranda rights."

"They were read their rights when they were arrested," Jesse said.

"They confessed."

"Under coercion. Questioned without an attorney. Thrown in a cell."

Peripherally, Jesse saw Abby shake her head at Fogarty.

"This is not a big building, Mr. Fogarty. I needed to talk to each of them alone. There was nowhere else to put them. Cell door wasn't even locked. I offered them an attorney at every juncture."

"Handcuffed?"

"Once charged," Jesse said.

"You led them to believe that Jencks had implicated them," Fogarty said.

"That I did," Jesse said.

"You pretended to let him go, in order to reinforce that belief."

"Yes, I did," Jesse said.

"He walked out the back door and Sat in the patrol car for an hour with Anthony De Angelo

"There is a conscious pattern of deception and coercion of three minors," Fogarty said.

"You better deal."

Abby shook her head again more vigorously. She knew that Fogarty's tactics wouldn't work with Jesse.

"I think your case may be shaky, Jesse," Abby said.

"But that's not really the point. The point is do you want to put these kids and their families through this? The parents make restitution. The two gay gentlemen rebuild the house. Life goes on."

"And the 'two gay gentlemen'? How do they feel?"

"They got their house rebuilt," Fogarty said.

"People ought to be able to fuck who they want to," Jesse said.

"Without getting their house burned down."

Abby knew Jesse was stubborn. But she had rarely seen him mad too.

"And you're going to fix that by running three kids and their families through the criminal courts?"

"I'm going to run them through the courts," Jesse said.

"To prove?" Abby said.

"That the kids can't mistreat whoever they want and have their parents buy them out of it."

The two lawyers were quiet. Abby knew it was a lost cause. Fogarty tried again.

"You won't get the DA into court with this," Fogarty said.

Jesse didn't reply.

"You'll look like a fool," Fogarty said.

"You don't have a case."

"No disrespect, counselor," Jesse said.

"But I guess I'm not willing to take your word on that."

FOURTEEN.

There was a large photograph of Ozzie Smith on the wall in Jesse's living room where you could see it while sitting at the kitchen counter. Jesse looked at the photo as he poured soda over the ice in a tall glass of scotch. He took a drink. If you didn't drink, Jesse thought, you'd never get it. You'd never know the way it felt.

Casual drinkers, people who drank to be sociable, who would just as soon have a 7 UP if it weren't so unsophisticated, they couldn't understand the fuss about the first drink. Jesse had always thought that the first couple of drinks were like life itself. Pleasing, smooth, bubbly, and harsh. For people who didn't like the taste, Jesse had unaffected scorn. The greatest pleasure came long before you got drunk. After the first one, with the certainty of more, there was gratitude for the life you led.

After a couple of drinks, the magic went away, and pretty soon it was just addiction.

"Got to work on that addiction," Jesse said to Ozzie Smith.

Ozzie was in midair, parallel to the ground, his glove outstretched. As far as Jesse knew, Ozzie Smith had no addictions. Best shortstop that ever lived, Jesse said to himself. He knew it was too large a claim. He knew that Ozzie Smith was only the best shortstop he'd ever seen. He couldn't speak of Marty Marion or Pee Wee Reese, or for that matter, Honus Wagner. He drank some more scotch. They better than Ozzie, they were very goddamned good.

He was pretty certain that none of the others did a back flip.

"Wizard of Oz," Jesse said out loud.

If he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd have made the show. He knew that somatically. He had always known he was a big-league shortstop. If he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd be just finishing up a career.

Maybe moved to third in the last couple of years. Hit.275-.280 lifetime. Ten, twelve home runs. Less average maybe than Ozzie Smith, but a little more power. Good numbers for a guy with his glove. Guy who could throw a seed from the hole. His glass was empty. He went to the refrigerator, got more ice, and mixed himself another. He drank. Yes. Still there.

He'd made the show, he wouldn't be bullying teenagers for a living.

"A conscious pattern of deception and coercion." Fogarty had that right. May not stand up in court. Depends on which judge they drew. Might not get to court. Depended on which prosecutor they drew. He wondered who Jenn might be sleeping with. Experience would suggest the station manager. On the other hand, she said she'd changed. She said Dr. St. Claire had helped her be different than she was. Hard to love somebody sleeping with somebody else. Could be done though. He could do it. Hell, he was good at it.

"Nice to be good at something, Oz."

Hadn't worked with Abby either. She wasn't tough enough, but at least she'd been faithful. Jenn was tough enough. One out of two ain't bad. When he was nineteen, playing in Colorado, he'd been able to do a back flip, like Ozzie Smith, when he ran out to short at the start of a game. He made himself another drink and took a pull.

It wasn't there any more, but he took it back to the counter with him anyway. The truth of it was of course that he hadn't loved Abby. He'd liked her, and he'd tried to love her because he wanted to move on from Jenn. But he couldn't. That was a grim thought, wasn't it? That he couldn't move on from Jenn? Jesus Christ! He'd better be able to. Or, maybe he wouldn't have to. Or, maybe he was drunk.

He looked up at the picture of Ozzie Smith, frozen in midair.

"It's a long season, Oz," Jesse said out loud.

He drank most of the rest of his glass.

"And it's not like football," he said.

He emptied his glass and stood and made a fresh drink and brought it to the counter. He drank some and made a gesture with his glass toward the picture.

"We play this game every day," he said and heard himself slush the Sin "this."

FIFTEEN.

Macklin was eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a cracker named JD Harter at the Horse Radish Grill on Powers Ferry Road in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.

"How big is big money?" JD said.

He was small and slim with thick black hair worn long enough to cover his ears and slicked straight back. He had a pointed nose and wore rose-tinted black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a powder blue jogging suit with dark maroon trim and a satin finish. On his feet were woven leather loafers and no socks.

"Everybody gets at least a million," Macklin said, JD raised his eyebrows.

"Large," he said.

"How much you get?"

"More than anybody else," Macklin said.

"Figures," JD said.

"How much more?"

"Long as you get yours, what do you care?" Macklin said.

JD shrugged.

"I expect to get fucked," he said.

"Just like to know how bad."

Macklin grinned.

"Chicken's great, isn't it?" JD said. He was drinking Coca-Cola with his bourbon.

"It is," Macklin said.

"What happens if I sign up, and after it's over I don't get no million?" JD said.