Clay had given Paulette and Jonah the same careful explanation he had given to Rodney. To wit: He had stumbled upon a conspiracy involving a bad drug—the name of the drug and the name of the company would never be disclosed to them or to anyone else. He had made contact with the company. A quick deal was struck. Serious money was changing hands. Secrecy was crucial. Just do your jobs and don’t ask a lot of questions. We’re going to build a nice little law firm where we make lots of money and have some fun along the way.

Who could say no to such an offer?

Miss Glick greeted Adelfa Pumphrey as if she were the very first client to ever enter the shiny new law firm, which in fact she was. Everything smelled new—the paint, the carpet, the wallpaper, the Italian leather furniture in the reception area. Miss Glick brought Adelfa water in crystal that had never been used before, then returned to her task of arranging her new glass-and-chrome desk. Paulette was next. She took Adelfa into her office for the preliminary workup, which was more than semiserious girl talk. Paulette took a bunch of notes about family and background, the same info Max Pace had already prepared. She said the right words to a grieving mother.

So far everyone had been black, and Adelfa was reassured by this.

“You may have seen Mr. Carter before,” Paulette said, working her way through the rough script she and Clay had put together. “He was in court when you were there. He was appointed by the Judge to represent Tequila Watson, but he got rid of the case. That’s how he got involved with this settlement.”

Adelfa looked as confused as they’d expected her to be.

Paulette pressed on. “He and I worked together for five years in the Office of the Public Defender. We quit a few days ago and opened this firm. You’ll like him. He’s a very nice guy and a good lawyer. Honest, and loyal to his clients.”

“Y’all just opened up?”

“Yes. Clay has been wanting to have his own firm for a long time. He asked me to join him. You’re in very good hands, Adelfa.”

The confusion had turned to bewilderment.

“Any questions?” Paulette asked.

“I got so many questions I don’t know where to start.”

“I understand. Here’s my advice to you. Don’t ask a lot of questions. There’s a big company out there that’s willing to pay you a lot of money to settle a potential lawsuit you might have arising from the death of your son. If you hesitate and ask questions, you could easily end up with nothing. Just take the money, Adelfa. Take it and run.”

When it was finally time to meet Mr. Carter, Paulette led her down the hall to a large office in the corner. Clay had been pacing nervously for an hour, but he greeted her calmly and welcomed her to the firm. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, his desk covered with files and papers as if he were litigating on many fronts. Paulette hung around until the ice was completely broken, then, according to the plan, excused herself.

“I recognize you,” Adelfa said.

“Yes, I was in court for the arraignment. The Judge dumped that case on me, but I got rid of it. Now I’m working the other side of the street.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re probably confused by all this.”

“That’s right.”

“It’s actually quite simple.” Clay straddled the edge of his desk and looked down at her hopelessly perplexed face. He locked his arms across his chest and tried to give the appearance that he’d done this before. He launched into his version of the big bad drug company narrative, and while it was more drawn out than Rodney’s and more animated, it told the same story without revealing much in the way of new facts. Adelfa sat in a sunken leather chair, hands folded across the lap of her uniform pants, eyes watching, never blinking, not sure what to believe.

As he wrapped up his story he said, “They want to pay you a bunch of money, right now.”

“Who, exactly, is they?”

“The drug company.”

“Does it have a name?”

“It has several, and several addresses, and you’ll never know its true identity. That’s part of the deal. We, you and I, lawyer and client, must agree to keep everything a secret.”

She finally blinked, then recrossed her hands and shifted her weight. Her eyes glazed over as she stared at the fine new Persian rug that consumed half the office. “How much money?” she asked softly.

“Five million dollars.”

“Good Lord,” she managed to say before she broke down. She covered her eyes and sobbed and for a long time made no effort to stop. Clay handed her a tissue from a box.

The settlement money was sitting in Chase Bank, next to Clay’s, just waiting to be distributed. Max’s paperwork was on the desk, a pile of it. Clay walked her through it, explaining that the money would be transferred first thing the next morning, as soon as the bank opened. He flipped pages and pages of documents, hitting the high points of the legalities, collecting her signatures where necessary. Adelfa was too stunned to say much. “Trust me,” he said more than once. “If you want the money, sign right there.”

“I feel like I’m doing something wrong,” she said at one point.

“No, the wrong has been done by someone else. You’re the victim here, Adelfa, the victim and now the client.”

“I need to talk to someone,” she said once as she signed again.

But there was no one to talk to. A boyfriend came and went, according to Max’s intelligence, and he was not the type to seek advice from. She had brothers and sisters scattered from D.C. to Philadelphia, but they were certainly no more sophisticated than Adelfa. Both parents were dead.

“That would be a mistake,” Clay said delicately. “This money will improve your life if you keep it quiet. If you talk about it, then it will destroy you.”

“I’m not good at handling money.”

“We can help. If you’d like, Paulette can monitor things for you and give advice.”

“I’d like that.”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

Paulette drove her home, a slow ride through rush-hour traffic. She told Clay later that Adelfa said very little, and when they arrived at the housing project she did not want to get out. So they sat there for thirty minutes, talking quietly about her new life. No more welfare, no more gunshots in the night. No more prayers to God to protect her children. Never again would she worry about keeping her kids safe the way she had worried about Ramon.

No more gangs. No more bad schools.

She was crying when she finally said good-bye.

The black Porsche Carrera rolled to a stop under a shade tree on Dumbarton Street. Clay got out and for a few seconds was able to ignore his newest toy, but after a quick glance in all directions he turned and admired it once again. His for three days now, and he still couldn’t believe he owned it. Get used to it, he kept telling himself, and he could manage to act as though it were just another car, nothing special, but the sight of it after even a brief absence still made his pulse quicken. “I’m driving a Porsche,” he would say to himself, out loud, as he buzzed through traffic like a Formula One driver.

He was eight blocks from the main campus of Georgetown University, the place he’d spent four years as a student before moving on to its law school near Capitol Hill. The town houses were historic and picturesque; the small lawns manicured; the streets covered by ancient oaks and maples. The busy shops and bars and restaurants on M Street were just two blocks to the south, easy walking distance. He had jogged these streets for four years, and he’d spent many long nights with his pals prowling the hangouts and pubs along Wisconsin Avenue and M Street.

Now he was about to live here.

The town house that held his attention was on the market for $1.3 million. He’d found it cruising through Georgetown two days earlier. There was another on N Street and another on Volta, all within a stone’s throw of each other. He was determined to buy one before the end of the week.