Then, suddenly, Frannie. Realizing that the essence of him had nearly dried up and would surely blow away if he didn’t risk part of it, he’d started over. Fatherhood, again. Criminal law, again. Caring too much again.

What if he lost all this now, or even any part of it?

No, he couldn’t let that happen. He was at his limit of risk tolerance. It was too dangerous; it was a matter of his survival, he had to pull back.

And that’s what he’d done: gotten back to sleepwalking. Functioning, keeping too busy. He was on the run, avoiding the only kind of work he found fulfilling, maintaining a low level of interaction with his family.

It stunned him – he’d become afraid. Of change, of failure in his job, of caring too much at home.

It had to stop, he thought. He had to wake himself up. What was the point of protecting the essentials in your life – your talents, your family, your friends – if you never took the time to enjoy them? If you were already dead?

Superior Court Judge Leo Chomorro, a brush-cut, swarthy block of well-tailored muscle, was in his chambers, playing chess with his computer. He had blocked out six days for a murder trial in his courtroom, and this morning one of Pratt’s young wunderkind had forgotten to subpoena the witness he had planned to call at the start of the day. So Chomorro had a morning off, not that this had put him in an especially good humor. On the other hand, one of Hardy’s trials had been in Chomorro’s courtroom, and there was no evidence that anything put him in a good humor. Nevertheless, he was the only available judge this morning, and Hardy needed him.

He kept it short: he’d like the judge to sign a court order to look at the surveillance videotapes from Graham Russo’s bank. He explained why he needed it.

‘Why don’t you use a subpoena?’ the judge asked him.

‘I can’t. There’s no case pending.’

‘So what jurisdiction do I have to issue this order? Who am I to tell the bank what to do? I can’t issue an order any more than you can issue a subpoena.’

‘Your Honor.’ Hardy laid on the respect. ‘The bank doesn’t care about the tape. All they need is paper to cover themselves. If you sign this, no one will ever object. If you don’t, important evidence in this case could be lost because the police don’t want to preserve it.’

Chomorro snorted. ‘They shouldn’t care either way.’

Hardy nodded. ‘Should is the operative word there, Judge.’

‘You think this one’s going to get hot, don’t you?’

Another nod. ‘It’s smoldering already. That’s why I need the order now. I don’t know how long they save the tapes. If it’s a week, maybe I’m already too late. I need last Friday’s.’

Chomorro reviewed the order that Hardy had printed out from the word processor in his office.

‘To: CUSTODIAN OF RECORDS, Wells Fargo Bank, Haight Street Branch.

‘GOOD CAUSE APPEARING THEREFORE, you are hereby ORDERED, upon receipt of reasonable payment therefore, to surrender to Dismas Hardy, counsel of record for Graham Russo, copies of surveillance videotape film for the dates May 9-13, inclusive.’

Below the date was a line for the judge to sign, and this he did, looking up when he was finished, handing over the paper. ‘I haven’t seen you around here in a while, Mr Hardy. You been on vacation?’

Hardy kept it light. ‘Just waiting for the right case.’

Chomorro nodded. ‘Looks like you found it.’

Graham had his telephone and answering machines unplugged, but in New York on Thursday afternoon a senior editor at Time - Michael Cerrone – convinced his boss that the Russo story in San Francisco was a potential cover. On Friday at one-twenty, shivering in the wind and fog – even up on Edgewood – Cerrone knocked on Graham’s door and introduced himself. He had his photographer with him.

‘Time magazine?’ Graham said. ‘You’re kidding me.’

Cerrone had seen this response before in people whom fame had sledgehammered. He proffered his credentials.

‘This is so unreal,’ Graham said. ‘Here I just come home from getting laid off and now you want to take my picture for Time magazine?’

Cerrone wasn’t much older than Graham, though he looked even younger, with dark hair to his shoulders and an open, inviting smile. In jeans, hiking boots, and a bright blue parka, he was the farthest thing imaginable from a threatening big-city media type. He showed his teeth, grinning. ‘Hey, I know it’s not Rolling Stone, but I’ll buy you a beer.’ Then, more seriously, ‘Who laid you off? How come?’

Graham explained it. His employers had no complaints about his work, but due to all the publicity, they’d gotten several phone calls. Potential customers didn’t seem all that thrilled with the idea that their sick patients would be riding in an ambulance with a paramedic who might help them end their suffering. After all this blew over, the ambulance company might reconsider bringing Graham back on, but until then…

‘That sucks,’ Cerrone said sympathetically. ‘Don’t you want to tell your side of it? You’ll never get a better chance.’

Graham Russo thought about it for a couple of seconds, then told Cerrone he might as well come on in out of the cold, bring his photographer in with him.

The manager of the Wells Fargo branch – a cooperative woman named Peggy Reygosa – was inclined to comply promptly with Hardy’s court order. She wasn’t about to let go of the originals, however, but arranged with the bank’s custodian to make copies for Hardy. Yes, of course she’d tell him to be extremely careful not to erase the originals until he’d checked over the copies.

In her corner cubicle Ms Reygosa assured Hardy that the front entrance to the bank, where the video camera was mounted, was the only way into and out of the building, even for employees. She called in her custodian and asked him to get to work copying the tapes right away. ‘But if you wanted to see when Mr Russo last accessed his box, you should also check the sign-in form. Nobody gets inside their box without signing in.’

‘Even if they have their own key?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It takes two keys – yours and ours – and your signature. The inspectors who were in on Tuesday, they’ve already made a copy of the sign-in sheet. Would you like to see it?’

Bleary eyed, feeling stupid and finessed – he really was out of practice – Hardy told the manager that it would be nice. She got up and returned a couple of minutes later.

It wasn’t much of a formal document, just an oversized page with the bank’s logo on the top, vertical lines intersecting the signature and date lines below, so that each signatory had an individual box. A bank officer had a stamp, which was initialed in the first box, then there was the date, then the signature, and finally the time.

Ms Reygosa came around to peruse the sheet over Hardy’s shoulder. On the line above Graham’s every box had been filled in. Hardy couldn’t make out the name – Ben something – but he’d accessed his box on 5/8, which was Thursday, at 4:40 P.M. A bank officer with the initials A.L. – ‘That’s Alison Li’ – had signed Ben in.

On Graham’s line, Li had initialed her stamp again, but beside that there was only a signature, no time or date. ‘How did this happen?’ Hardy asked. ‘What does this mean?’

It was evidently the first time that Ms Reygosa had studied the document. She straightened up, surprising Hardy by laying a hand on his shoulder, and told him she’d be right back.

While she was gone, he went back to the list. Below Graham, order had once again been restored. On 5/10 – Saturday, he realized – at nine-fifteen, a Pam Barr had signed in. In all there were eight lines below Graham’s through Tuesday night. But there were no names at all for Friday.