Soma jumped at this. ‘Did you counsel him to do that? Where did he go?’

Hardy took in Soma for a beat, then turned to Drysdale. ‘The reporters were getting on his nerves. Tell you the truth, they’re getting on mine too.’

‘Then you did talk to him?’

Resolutely mild, Hardy kept his eyes on Drysdale, which he knew was making Soma crazy. ‘Did you read that little piece about me and Sharron, Art?’

Jeff Elliot’s ‘CityTalk’ column this morning had alluded to Hardy’s aborted plea bargain and Pratt’s displeasure with the way things had turned out. Reading it at their kitchen table in the morning, Frannie had commented that her husband seemed to have a knack for alienating district attorneys. Hardy allowed as to how that was probably true. It wasn’t the worst possible trait in a defense attorney.

To which Frannie had raised her eyebrows. Her husband was precise with his words, and if Dismas was calling himself a defense attorney right out loud, that’s what he meant.

But Drysdale was nodding, smiling. Pratt, after all, had fired him recently enough that he still didn’t wish her all the best. ‘She shouldn’t have leaked it before the deal was done,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it made her look less than astute. Bumbling, in point of fact.’ The wattage on the smile increased. ‘Poor woman, my heart goes out to her, but I do think, Diz, it put you on her list.’

‘I’ll try to make it up to her.’ Hardy, enjoying himself, finally turned to Soma. ‘Anyway, to answer your question, Gil, Graham’s been a little tough to reach. He hadn’t been indicted. In her wisdom Ms Pratt let him go. He was a free man.’ He smiled all around. ‘It’s a free country.’

Drysdale cut to it. ‘He’s been indicted now. And I expect you to surrender him.’

Though this was news, it was hardly unexpected, and Hardy took it calmly. ‘What charge?’

‘Murder one with specials.’

Expected or not – and it was the official confirmation of what Hardy had predicted – this wasn’t good news. ‘You can’t be asking for death on this?’

‘LWOP.’ This was Soma, rapping the rap, trying out the sound of the jargon, pretending to be an old pro. Hardy wondered if Soma had given any thought to the reality of life in prison without the possibility of parole for someone very much like himself, as Graham was. If, in fact, Soma had given thought to much except getting high-profile cases and winning them. Hardy guessed not; the boy had all the signs of testosterone poisoning, which meant he wouldn’t do it by the numbers.

Also, the case had a personal edge, which increased the odds – if Soma was smart, which also appeared to be the case – that he’d come up with some tricks in the courtroom.

But here in Belden Alley the attorneys for both sides of this highly publicized case were at the same table, informally, in some kind of free-form mode. From what they’d said, they hadn’t found Graham yet to arrest him. Hardy knew Drysdale well, and thought he’d orchestrated this meeting for some specific purpose. Maybe get another plea in play.

Although – a zing of caution – maybe Art thought he could get information they didn’t have while Hardy’s guard was down. He’d find out. ‘Either of you read the article in Time?’

Cerrone had done a masterful job of creating an impression without ever crossing the line into accusation. The Graham Russo case, he’d written, was a poignant illustration of the many ambiguities facing the country surrounding the entire problem of elderly care/assisted suicide/the right to die.

Woven into the fabric of the legal story of the arrest and subsequent release of Graham Russo was the relationship between him and his father, the desperation of Sal’s condition, Graham’s access to morphine and syringes. Reading the article, Hardy concluded that no reasonable person would assume that Graham had not helped his father die with dignity.

Hardy had his ear to the ground, and as far as he could tell, the article, coupled with Barbara Brandt’s confession, had pretty much settled the question for the public. Even some of the legal public – Freeman, Michelle.

These two lawyers with him now, however, represented something entirely different. A waiter had come and taken their lunch orders and Hardy had decided on a cup of espresso, high octane. After it arrived, he slowly stirred in a spoonful of sugar. ‘I’ve got to say, Art, this is a terrible call. If you read the article-’ True to form, Soma butted in again.

‘The article left out just a few things.’

‘Yes it did.’ Hardy was all agreement. ‘And I know all about them – the money and the so-called struggle? But I’ll tell you something: Graham didn’t kill Sal for the money. You’ll never be able to prove he did.’ He found himself addressing Art again. ‘Powell’s got to know this, Art. It’s damn near frivolous.’

‘We did get the indictment.’ Drysdale shrugged. ‘The grand jury didn’t think it was frivolous.’

Hardy sat back in his chair, amused. ‘Wasn’t it your very self, years ago, who assured me that if the prosecution asked nice enough, the grand jury would indict a ham sandwich?’

Drysdale nodded. ‘I might have said something like that when I was but a callow youth, but I was wrong.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, the ham sandwich might have done it.’

‘So remind me again, why are we having this discussion? You came down here looking for me, remember? Why didn’t you just give me a call and tell me to bring in my man?’

Putting a hand over the arm of Soma, who looked equal parts ready to interrupt again and in sore need of a bathroom break, Drysdale leaned forward. ‘Dean’s made his point getting the indictment, Diz. He’s upholding the law, Pratt isn’t. I don’t think this kid has to spend the rest of his life in jail.’ He threw a quick glance at Soma, shutting him up.

‘So what do you want?’

‘You tell me. The word was you went to manslaughter, no time, with Pratt. I don’t think Dean will go there, but he might bend down from the specials.’

But Hardy was shaking his head. ‘My client didn’t even cop to probation, Art. He says he didn’t do it.’

‘Although the entire country now thinks he did.’

Hardy spread his palms. ‘Be that as it may. And even if that’s true, even if some jury comes to that view, they won’t see murder with specials. They’ll see an assisted suicide.’

Finally, Soma could hold it no longer. ‘Which is murder.’

Drysdale agreed. ‘Forget the legal niceties, Diz. This was a murder. We can prove murder.’

‘Which means Graham did it,’ Soma blurted.

Hardy took a beat. ‘That’s an interesting legal theory,’ he said.

‘The point,’ Drysdale went on, ‘is this: you know Powell, Diz. He’s not immune to public opinion…’ This, Hardy thought, was surely one of the great understatements of Drysdale’s career, but he let him go on. ‘He doesn’t necessarily want to try a case where sixty percent of his constituency thinks his suspect is a good guy who did the right thing.’

‘But-’

Drysdale’s hand went back to Soma’s arm. ‘But Dean is convinced – and I agree – that this was a murder. You will, too, Diz, when you’ve seen all the discovery. So if you plead, it’s win-win. Dean gets a W in his column for upholding the law, you get a W for pleading down. Pratt picks up an L.’

‘I love the sports analogy,’ Hardy said. ‘So Graham gets time in the slammer? My guess is he’d call that one the big L for him. What do you think?’

‘L, for life is the big L,’ Soma said. ‘This would be lower case.’

‘It’s not going to happen,’ Hardy replied, standing up, ‘but I’ll convey your kind offer to my client.’

If I can find him.

Shaking hands, he was effusively friendly. He told Art it was nice seeing him again. They ought to plan a lunch together sometime, catch up on their families, the changes in their jobs, old times.