This is a work of fiction.

Names,
characters, organizations, places, events,
and incidents are either products of the
authors imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events
is purely coincidental.

Text copyright 2017 by William

L. Myers, Jr.
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced,

or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express
written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas

& Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781503943421
ISBN-10: 1503943429

Cover design by Faceout Studio

 This book is dedicated to my
parents, Bill and Evelyn Myers,
the two most selfless people
Ive ever had the privilege of
knowing. You devoted
yourselves to each other and to
your children, teaching us
through your own example the
value of hard work and a soft
voice. I miss you.
 CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 1
THURSDAY, MAY 31

Its eight oclock in the morning and Im

parking my car in front of Celine
Bauers sad row house. The exterior of
the three-story structure is beat-up brick.
The house has a wooden porch, its green
paint dirty and starting to peel.
Flowerpots adorn the porch and the top
step, but the plants are dead. Half a
dozen newspapers, still in their plastic
wrappers, are scattered about. Celine
Bauer has clearly stopped caring about
her home, something Ive seen before in
the parents and spouses of the
imprisoned. As hope drains from their
hearts, everything else becomes
pointless.
Two years ago I agreed to take on the
case of Celines son, Justin, charged
with second-degree murder in the
beating death of a University of
Pennsylvania undergraduate. Justin and
two of his friends were tried together,
and all three were found guilty. Celine
sat through the trial convinced that her
sons lawyer was incompetent. Justin
had been a straight-A student at West
Philly High, had never gotten into
trouble before. According to his mother,
Justin had not been with his friends
when they beat the other boy to death but
had joined up with them shortly
afterward, not knowing what theyd
done.
Celine sent me a heartfelt letter,
asking for my help. She knew about me
because I had recently won the release
of a young man wrongly convicted on
evidence manufactured by a rogue police
detective. I agreed to review Justins
trial transcript, and, when I did, I saw
immediately that Celine was right:
Justins trial counsel had completely
botched the defense. I took the case pro
bono and filed a petition for writ of
habeas corpus on the grounds of
ineffective assistance of counsel, which
the trial judge promptly rejected. I then
appealed to the Superior Court. We lost.
Finally, I filed a petition for allowance
of appeal to the Pennsylvania Supreme
Court, the criminal law equivalent of a
Hail Mary pass. But miracles do happen,
and earlier this week Id received the
courts order granting my appeal.
Id phoned Justins mother three times
in as many days but never heard back. I
wanted Celine to hear the news, and her
failure to return my calls told me she
needed to.
Celine opens the door on the fourth
knock. Her eyes are flat. I smell alcohol
on her breath. We stare at each other
until she backs away from the door,
leaving it open for me to follow her
inside. The living room looks much like
the porch. Dead and dying plants. Mail
in a pile on the floor. Plates crusted with
food on the coffee table. Celine flops
down on the sofa, lights a cigarette,
waits for me to tell her the bad news.
I lower myself onto a worn chair on
the other side of the coffee table. I take a
deep breath. Its good news, Celine, I
say. She grunts. No, really. The
Supreme Court has granted us an appeal.
They wouldnt do that unless they felt
there were real grounds to hear the case.
Theres a strong chance well get a new
trial. And if we do, I feel that we can
win it.
Celine stares at me for a long time.
Then she puts her cigarette out in the
chipped glass ashtray on the coffee
table. When will the judges decide?
When can I tell Justin hell get a second
chance? Its killing him in there. He gets
beat up all the time. Hes telling me hes
gonna join a gang, for protection. He
needs hope.
I nod. Itll probably take about six
months.
Celine sighs. A long time.
Its something for Justin to hang on
to. I lean over, pick up the bourbon, and
stand. You dont need this. I walk the
glass into the kitchen and empty it into
the sink. When I come back, Celine is on
her feet. Youre a strong woman,
Celine. And you have to be the strongest
youve ever been. For your son.
 Celines back stiffens. Her eyes
harden. I nod again, hoping the fire I see
in her will survive the coming months.
I walk to the car and start it, look at
my own eyes in the rearview mirror.
Youll get that womans boy out of
prison, I say. You will. And I mean it.

People like Celine and Justin are the

reason I left the DAs office to become a
defense attorney. The reason I often
violate the sacred rule of lawyering:
dont get personally involved. When I
care about the client, its always
personal for me. But not all clients are
like the Bauers. Many of my clients are
guilty of everything theyre charged
with, and then some. They dont hire me
to get justice but to avoid it all costs.
Find loopholes, get the evidence
excluded, spin the jurors heads with
clever cross-examinations, and break
their hearts with hard-luck storiesit
doesnt matter how, just get them outta
there. And the worst among them are the
entitled executives who play shell games
with other peoples money, the white-
collar defendants who drive to my office
in Bentleys and ask my secretary if she
can validate their parking. I care about
those clients about as much as they care
about everyone elseIm only in it for
the money.
An hour after I get back to my office,
Im set to meet one of them. Phillip
Baldwin. Philadelphias own
homegrown mini-Madoff, Baldwin
turned his familys hundred-year-old
private-investment firm into a Ponzi
scheme.
Since the day of his indictment by a
federal grand jury, Phillip Baldwin has
sworn his innocence and vowed to fight
the charges all the way to the United
States Supreme Court. Baldwins trial is
set to begin in three weeks, and my law
partner, Susan Klein, and I are counting
on the fees the case will bring in to pay
our overhead.
At 9:45, I join Susan outside her
office, and we walk down the lushly
carpeted hall toward one of our
conference rooms. The feel of our office
is sleek and modern: a marble-floored
lobby with tiger-wood receptionist desk,
recessed lighting throughout, white walls
adorned with original paintings of iconic
Philadelphia city scenesBoathouse
Row, the art museum, Independence
Hall.
We enter the conference room, and
Baldwin stands to greet us. Id read that
Baldwin wore $10,000 William
Fioravanti suits. The deep-blue double-
breasted number he has on now certainly
looks like it could go for that much. He
paid much more for his Patek Philippe
watch and sapphire cuff links. Baldwin
even has a rich mans hairthick,
silver-gray, and sculpted atop his
chiseled, fifty-five-year-old face.
We all sit down, and Baldwin begins.
Mick, Susan, thank you for agreeing to
meet with us at the last minute. Some
things have happened, and Kimberly and
I felt it important to see you right away.
He nods toward his thirty-year-old
second wife, who is model-tall and thin
with superbly highlighted brunette hair
and blazing blue eyes. Kimberly
Baldwin is one of the finest-looking
Miss Pennsylvanias our commonwealth
has ever turned out.
Whats happened? asks Susan.
Kimberly and I have talked it over,
and I want to plead.
I dont understand, my partner says.
Theyre going to kill us, Kimberly
says, her eyes filling with tears. And
Phillips children.
More death threats? Susan asks.
Kimberly nods. But these are
serious. She reaches into her Louis
Vuitton handbag, pulls out an envelope,
and slides it across the table. Susan and
I take turns reviewing its contents.
Pictures of Kimberly leaving the
gym, says Baldwin. And of my twin
daughters, taken at college. Theyre only
twenty years old, for Gods sake. As he
speaks, Baldwins handsome face
contorts, overpowering the Botox that
normally keeps him wrinkle-free. And
this, he says, handing me a note with
letters cut out of magazines, the kind
kidnappers write in movies.
 It reads: You rot in jail or they rot in
boxes.
Youve had death threats before, I
reiterate.
But now theyre threatening me,
says Kimberly, forgetting Baldwins
children. And so are those government
lawyers.
I see Baldwin stiffen at the mention of
the US Attorneys Office.
The feds are threatening you? Susan
asks.
They say they just want to talk . . . ,
Kimberly begins. God, Im so
confused.
Confused? Baldwins face turns
scarlet. Whats there to be confused
about? The government is the enemy.
Youre my wife. You dont talk with
them. Ever!
Lets everyone take a breath, Susan
says.
Just call the feds and get me a deal,
Mick, says Baldwin.
You realize the least youd be facing
is ten years.
Baldwin stiffens again. Just get the
best deal you can. Maybe in one of those
places like they sent Martha Stewart or
Michael Milken.
Federal prison isnt the country club
everyone thinks it is, says Susan.
But its no use. The meeting drags on
for another hour, until just after eleven,
Baldwin refusing to change his mind.
Susan and I escort the Baldwins to the
lobby, telling them they should sleep on
it, then walk together to Susans office.
Susan flops down into her beige leather
chair. I sink into one of the visitors seats
on the other side of the expensive glass-
top worktable Susan uses as her desk.
She takes off her artsy black-framed
glasses and fastens her long ash-blonde
locks with a hair tie. Her strong jaw and
aquiline nose appear sharper without her
hair hanging down to soften them.
If my math is correct, I say, half a
million dollars just walked out the
door.
Its not the death threats Baldwins
afraid of, you know.
I raise my eyebrows.
Hes afraid of her. Kimberly. That
shell turn states evidence against him.
You think she knew about the scam?
Sweet little trophy wife is smarter
than she looks.
I consider what Susan said. Why
would the feds even bother with her?
They have more than enough to convict
him. What else could she tell them?
Susan gives me a rueful smile. She
could tell them where hes hidden the
money.
I nod. Thieves like Baldwin always
squirrel away a chunk of their ill-gotten
loot in case the government ever comes
knocking on their door.
Susan sinks back in her chair and
sighs. How much do we have in the
operating account?
 Not much, I say. About eighty
thousand.
Running a small law firm is a lot like
being the bunny on a greyhound track.
The greyhounds represent all your
overhead: payroll, rent, electric,
insurance premiums, phone and Internet,
advertising, postage, plane fare,
mileage, paper costs. The partners who
own the law firm are the rabbit: always
running as fast as they can, trying to stay
ahead of the dogs.
We should have paid the line down
last year, when we got the money from
the Lynch case. Susans talking about
the fee we received on a defective-
product case we referred out to another
firm. Though wed talked about exactly
that, in the end we decided to take the
money as a distribution. Id used part of
my share to build a pool behind my
house. Susan used hers to remodel the
kitchen in her condo. The rest we spent
upgrading our offices.
With the Baldwin case coming to
trial, Susan and I had put most of our
other cases on the back burner. That
would have to change.
Everyonell have to start burning the
midnight oil on our other cases, I say.
For a second, I question whether taking
on the Justin Bauer case was a good
idea. But only for a second. The Phillip
Baldwins of the world may be how we
keep the doors open, but the Justin
Bauers are why.
 Susan shakes her head, looks up at the
ceiling. Not a good day for McFarland
and Klein.

I walk to my office, sit for a minute, then

turn my chair to look out the window,
toward City Hall and, in the distance, the
Delaware River. The clock at City Hall
reads 11:40 when I sense a presence
behind me in the doorway.
Hey.
I turn around. Its the firms lead
investigator, my younger brother,
Tommy. At five ten, Tommy is the same
height as I am, but his broad shoulders
and thick chest make him a far more
powerful physical presence. The buzz-
cut hair and prison tats peeking above
his shirt collar imply a roughness not
disguised by his expensive sport coat
and precisely creased slacks.
Tommy walks in and takes a seat
across the desk from me.
Whats up? I say without
enthusiasm.
Tommy raises his eyebrows. Whats
eating you?
I shake my head, wave him off.
Tommy holds my gaze for a moment, and
I am amazed, as always, that I can stare
straight into his flat brown eyes and have
no more sense as to whats behind them
than if he were wearing Blues Brothers
sunglasses.
 Im about to say something when
Angie buzzes me on my speaker.
Theres a call for you. She says she
needs to talk to you right away.
Who is it? I ask, glancing at my
watch. 11:45.
Its that reporter, Jennifer Yamura.
Yamura recently broke an enormous
police-corruption story, disclosing that
the district attorneys office was running
a grand-jury investigation into a well-
organized ring of cops conspiring with
local drug dealers to sell heroin and
cocaine. The grand jury proceedings
were, of course, meant to be
confidential. In fact, the grand jurys
very existence was supposed to be
secret. And it was, until the young
Channel 6 reporter divulged the
proceedings on the six oclock news.
She claimed to have learned about the
investigation from unnamed sources who
were both privy to the investigation and
somehow involved in the ring.
As details of the investigation
emerged, it turned out that the storys
timing couldnt have been worse. The
police and DAs office had been
finalizing plans to conduct a major sting
that supposedly would have uncovered
additional key players as yet unknown to
the authorities. When the grand jury
came to light, the cop ring shut itself
down, and its members crawled back
under their rocks.
The prosecutor in charge of the grand
jury, Devlin Walker, is now fit to be tied.
Hes subpoenaed Yamura to appear
before the grand jury to find out her
source and what else she might know.
I tell Angie Ill take the call. As I
pick up the receiver, I tell Tommy,
Whoever Yamuras sources are, theyre
in deep shit. I put the receiver to my
ear.
Yamura introduces herself and tells
me that, given the subpoena shes
received, she wants to hire her own
defense attorney. Channel 6 and ABC
already have a squad of lawyers
assigned to the case, but she doesnt trust
them.
I can see you tomorrow at four, I
say as I type the appointment into my
computer. I hang up and look at Tommy.
When does she have to go before the
grand jury? Tommy asks.
Monday. Four days from now.
Subpoena says to bring all of her notes
and her laptop as well.
She may as well bring her own
frying pan, too.
Its almost noon. You up for some
lunch?
Cant today, he says, jumping up.
Gotta see a man about a horse.
I watch Tommy leave, wondering why
he came into the office at all. My glum
demeanor might have turned him away
just now, but more often its Tommy
whos in a bad mood. My brothers a
testy, unpredictable person, but I give
him a lot of leeway considering all hes
been through. Susan is less tolerant of
him, and weve gotten into it a couple of
times about Tommys continued
employment at the firm. But hes proven
invaluable in a number of cases, and
Ive won the argument so far.
When Tommys gone, I reach for the
Inquirer on my desk. The front page
features a story about David Hanson, an
old friend of mine from law school.
David is general counsel at Hanson
World Industries, a Fortune 500
company headquartered in Philadelphia.
HWI has never gone public. Its shares
are owned by the direct lineal heirs of
its founders, those heirs being David
himself; his half brother, Edwin, whos
the CEO; and two- or three-score
cousins, aunts, and uncles. Todays
article is all about a complex business
arrangement that David has put together
between HWI and a collection of
companies in China and Japan. If the
deal goes through, it will bring hundreds
of jobs and millions of dollars to
Philadelphia. The article paints a shining
picture of my old friend. Then again,
Ive never known any account to portray
David in less than glowing terms.
My phone rings and I see that,
somehow, its already 12:30. Angies at
lunch, so calls coming in for me ring
directly to my line. I pick up the
receiver. Its Jennifer Yamura again. She
wants to move up our meeting. We agree
on a time, then I hang up and finish
reading the feature about David Hanson.
I toss the newspaper back onto my desk,
stand, and look out the window.

About forty-five minutes later, Im

walking east on Walnut Street,
Rittenhouse Square behind me to the
west. Overhead, the sky is a brilliant
blue, the temperature an even eighty
degrees with low humidity and a light
breeze. The people I pass on the
sidewalk seem upbeat, happy. I wish I
could say the same for myself.
Thats when I see her. Half a block
down Walnut, walking toward me. My
wife. Piper is five foot six with a lithe
runners body and well-toned calves.
Even carrying a large shopping bag, she
glides almost weightlessly on the
pavement. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed
beauty turning mens heads on the street.
Piper spots me and her eyes flash
with surprise, then flatten as she forces a
smile. We approach each other and stop.
Despite the weather, the air between us
feels frigid.
What are you doing in town? I ask.
I thought you were going to spend the
day at the mall, have lunch with one of
your girlfriends. Thats what shed told
me this morning.
Its too nice to spend the day inside
a mall. So I thought Id drive into Center
City, check out the shops. Piper nods to
the stuffed Lululemon bag.
I wish Id have bought stock in that
company, I say.
My parents have Gabby for the
night, she says, referring to our six-
year-old daughter. She loves the new
car, by the way.
Over the weekend, Piper bought a
BMW convertible without telling me.
Did you set up the automatic pay
thing through the bank account? The first
payments due the middle of next month,
I think.
Livid with Piper, I pause before
answering. Im an expert at masking my
emotions, but its all I can do to restrain
myself. I smile, jaw tight. Its all
arranged.
A moment later, Piper and I part
ways. I turn to watch her, my heart rent
with fury and sorrow.

Back in the office, I sit at my desk and

try to will the days difficulties into their
own compartments. Im a savant when it
comes to compartmentalizing. I can store
something away in my mind for hours,
days, weeks. Sometimes forever.
I start checking my e-mails but quit
halfway through. I pick up the phone to
return an important call but hang up after
it rings once on the other end. Theres a
draft of an appellate brief on my desk,
and I pick it up, start to edit it, but toss it
aside after a page or two. Im just too
distracted to work. My insides are
roiling.
I close my eyes, open them, take five
deep breaths, then five more. It doesnt
help, so I decide to go for a run. I rip off
my work clothes, throw them onto my
desk in a heap, and put on the running
clothes I always bring with me to work.
Im flying the instant I leave the building.
My normal run is a ten-mile loop
along the Schuylkill River. Today, I take
it way too fast and am wiped out when I
get back to the office. I dry myself off
with paper towels in the bathroom,
change back into my work clothes, and
try to get some work done.
 My mind is still spinning, and I
realize its hopeless. I leave the office,
get my car, and head home. Passing 30th
Street Station, I call Piper. I cant reach
her at home, so I call her on her cell. She
says she decided to go to the mall after
all and that shell get home about the
same time I do. I tell her Ill pick up
something for dinner at Whole Foods . . .
not that Ill be able to eat anything.
Piper and I live with our daughter,
Gabrielle, about fifteen miles west of
Philadelphia. Our house is a sixty-year-
old stone Cape Cod on three-quarters of
an acre on a quiet, tree-lined street.
Piper fell in love with the house
instantly when she first laid eyes on it
four years ago. Its absolutely perfect,
she told me when we put in our bid.
Then, the minute we took possession,
she set out to change everything about it.
In order of attack, Piper replaced all the
wallpaper and lighting, tore up the
carpeting and laid new hardwood floors,
put in a new kitchen and upstairs and
downstairs bathrooms, and finished the
basement. The only things she hasnt
replaced are the windows and roof.
I pull my car up to the three-car
garage built into our house and walk in
the back door. Im immediately set upon
by Franklin, our two-hundred-pound
Bernese mountain dog, the Main Line
beast du jour. I place the Whole Foods
bag on the granite counter and give
Franklin the hugs and treats hes come to
expect when I get home from work.
Turning back to the counter and the
grocery bag, I notice a business card
stapled to an invoice of some sort. I pick
it up and see that its an estimate for a
new cedar-shake roof: $30,000.
Jesus Christ.
Piper enters the kitchen. Her face is
drawn, her eyes and nose are red. I
dont feel well, she says. Im not
going to eat. With that she passes by
me, walks down the hall, and goes up the
stairs.
I turn away from her. Given how I
feel right now, it suits me that were not
having dinner. I wander into the family
room and sit numbly in front of the
television. Reruns of Law and Order
play themselves out on the tube, but I can
barely see the images on the screen
through the fog that envelops my mind.
The eleven oclock news comes on, then
Jimmy Fallon, then Late Night with Seth
Meyers. I sit zombielike on the couch
until Carson Daly comes on at 1:30, then
will myself off the sofa and make my
way upstairs.
I pause and stand at the doorway of
Gabrielles room. Her empty bed evokes
a hollow ache inside me. I can feel her
absence outside myself as well, an
unnatural stillness that pervades the air,
the walls, the floorsas though the
whole house misses her. One of my
favorite things is to read Gabby to sleep
at night, then sit and watch her breathe. A
Sick Day for Amos McGee is one of
Gabbys current favorites, as is The Day
the Crayons Quit. The book I most
enjoy reading to her is one I saved from
my own childhood, the Dr. Seuss classic
Green Eggs and Ham. Too often, I come
home from work so late that Gabby is
already asleep. When thats the case, I
read to her anyway. Pipers always
thought it odd, but I like to think that,
even asleep, some part of Gabbys mind
can hear me and knows Im with her.
I feel a presence at my side and look
down to see Franklin standing next to
me. He stares through the doorway to
Gabbys bed, then looks up at me. I lean
down and pat his head. Dont worry,
boy. Shell be back tomorrow.
 Unlike some parents daughters.
Franklin and I turn and walk down the
hall to the master bedroom. I follow him
in and watch him curl up on the faux-fur
rug at the foot of our bed. I brush my
teeth, then undress in front of the bed,
watching Piper the whole time. Shes
curled up in a fetal position on her side
of the California king she bought a few
months earlier. Shes covered from head
to toe, so I cannot see her face.
For the next hour and a half, I toss
restlessly in a futile attempt to fall
asleep. Across the bed, Piper shifts
position as often as I do. She doesnt
answer when I ask if shes awake, but I
know the rhythms of her breathing and
can tell shes no more asleep than I.
 Then the phone rings. The neon-blue
light of the alarm clock reads 3:15.
Gabby! is all I can think.
I snatch up the phone and listen to the
panicked voice on the other end of the
line. Slow down, I tell the caller. But
he cant. After a few minutes, I interrupt.
All right, listen. Ill be there as fast as I
can. Just dont say anything to the police.
Anything at all.
I hang up the phone and sit up on the
edge of the bed, trying to process what
Ive just learned. Through the darkness, I
hear Piper ask me who it was.
It was David Hanson, I say. Hes
been arrested for murder.
I feel Piper stiffen. I turn to face her.
She stares at me, her mouth open. I wait
for her to ask the obvious question, and
when she doesnt, I answer anyway.
The victim is Jennifer Yamura. The
reporter.
 2
FRIDAY, JUNE 1

Its 5:15 a.m. when I walk into the

polices departments Ninth District
headquarters on the corner of Twenty-
First and Hamilton Streets. The building
is a squat three-story structure with a tan
brick facade and a concrete fascia just
below the roof line.
Hey, Mick. Heard you were
coming. Its Ted Brennan. He was a
rookie officer when I left the district
attorneys office. Good kid. His dad,
also a cop, out of the Sixth District, has
about five years until retirement.
Hows my guy?
Hanson? Sweating bullets. He
shrugs almost apologetically. We got
him dead to rights.
Ted proceeds to tell me the
circumstances of Davids arrest. The
911 operator gets a call about 11:30.
The caller says theres shouting and loud
noises in a house on the seventeen
hundred block of Addison Street, near
Rittenhouse Square. Dispatch sends a
squad car with two officers to the scene.
The lights are on so they know
someones at home. They knock, but no
one answers. They keep on knocking and
ringing the bell. Still no answer, so one
of the patrolmen stays at the front door
while the second runs around back to
Waverly, which is the alley between the
houses on Addison and Pine. He finds
your man running out the back of the
house, tackles him, cuffs him. Partner
comes around and walks into the house,
where he findsta da!one dead
reporter.
I inhale. Weapon?
Basement stairs. Your client pushed
her down, and she bashed her head in.
I think for a minute. Whos been with
him?
Tredesco and Cook. Brennan
smiles. Im sure theyre doing their best
to make him feel at home.
 Ive never met Cook, but I know John
Tredesco. Hes cunning. Hed probably
gone at David from eight different angles
already, trying to catch him in a lie.
Can I see him now?
Sure, but itll take a miracle worker
to get this guy off.
Brennan escorts me to the
interrogation room. I pause in the
hallway, look through the window.
David is slouched in a seat behind a
gray metal table, rubbing his forehead
with his hand. His thick chestnut hair is a
tangled mess. He taps his right foot
nervously under the table. When the door
opens and he sees me, David slowly lifts
his athletic six-foot-three frame from the
chair. The energy that normally powers
his movement has been drained from
him. His broad smile is long gone from
his face, his blue eyes bloodshot.
Four hours. Thats how long they
made me wait to call you. And another
two hours for you to show. Im going out
of my mind!
I motion for David to sit back down.
Did they offer you a nonwaiver of
rights? Its a form that says you dont
want to speak to the police or waive
your right to an attorney.
Yes. And I signed it. And I told them
you were my lawyer and I wanted to
speak to you. And they still made me
wait four hours.
Did you say anything to them
anything at all?
 Just that I wanted to call my lawyer.
You. And I kept on saying it, and they
ignored me and made me sit here in this
room. Tried to trick me into answering
questions.
Who tried to trick you? How did
they do that?
Two of them. They told me their
names, but I dont remember them. They
tried to play nice with me. Ask me how I
was feeling. Did I want any coffee?
Talked about the Phillies. What am I,
some idiot whos going to fall for that?
I let David vent some more, then ask
him a third time, Before you signed the
nonwaiver of rights, did you say
anything else to the police?
Nothing. I was at work all afternoon
thats what I told them. Then I told
them I wanted to call you.
Thats not nothing. I give David a
hard look. Were you at work all
afternoon? All afternoon?
David stares at me for a moment, then
closes his eyes, lowers his head.
Great, I say. Now youre on
record as having lied to the police.
His eyes still closed, David says,
Please, just get me out of here.
I spend an hour with David and then
drive to my office, getting in by about
seven oclock. Im the only one there,
and I will be until Susan arrives in an
hour or so. My mind is spinning, my
heart pounding like a hammer. My
thoughts drift back to the times I spent
with my law-school classmate and
partner in crime, David Hanson. Long
hours studying late into the night for
finals. Good hours spent at Phillies and
Eagles games. Wild hours spent at
parties and bars. Mild but happy hours
spent in restaurants after graduation.
Outings with our wives. I jump forward
and think about David now, the David I
havent seen in a while. David the
cheater. The clich husband who cant
keep his dick in his pants. Finally, I think
ahead, to David the accused. I know
whats ahead for my old friend. And I
know that I will be the one holding his
hand through all of it. Itll have to be me
if this is going to turn out wellfor
everyone.
Davids preliminary arraignment is
scheduled to be held at 11:00 a.m.,
which is pretty prompt for Philadelphia,
where the arrest-to-arraignment time can
be as long as twenty-four hours. The
arraignment procedure is a two-headed
hydra. David would remain at the station
house while the assistant district
attorney and I appear before the
arraignment court magistrate about a
mile away in the preliminary
arraignment room in the basement of the
Criminal Justice Center. We would see
David, and he would see us, only via
closed-circuit television.
The hearing room is actually a suite
of two rooms. The first, a gray waiting
room, has the feel of a bunker. Its front is
a glass wall through which you can see
the goings-on in the courtroom proper.
The courtroom rules, posted on a piece
of white paper taped to the window,
announce that there will be no talking, no
children, no eating or drinking, no
chewing gum, and no reading of
newspapers or books. Cell phones, of
course, must be off.
The courtroom itself has just enough
room for the judges bench and two
counsel tables. Each of the counsel
tables is crowded with a phone, a flat-
screen monitor, and a keyboard. Boxes
are junk-stacked in front of the right side
of the judges bench, which is topped
with its own computer screen and
vertical file folders jammed with manila
envelopes. The courtroom is better lit
than the waiting room, which serves only
to highlight the clutter.
The assistant district attorney sitting
in the waiting area looks young enough
to be carded at bars. He stands when I
walk in. We introduce ourselves, and I
ask him for a copy of the complaint. He
shifts on his feet and tells me hes going
to have to delay the arraignment for a
couple of hours while the complaint is
tinkered with.
Tinkered with? The DAs charging
unit, which works all night, should have
finalized the complaint long before the
arraignment. What are the charges
going to be?
Third-degree murder, obstruction of
justice, and tampering with evidence, the
last I saw.
I expected the low-level homicide
charge. It would be too early in the
investigation to charge anything higher.
The obstruction and tampering charges
pique my interest, but I dont press the
ADA for details, knowing its better to
wait for the complaint. I tell the young
prosecutor Ill see him shortly and walk
back to the office.
I told our staff about Davids arrest
before heading to court, saying I didnt
know much, only that the police had
caught David Hanson running from
Jennifer Yamuras house late the night
before. And that Yamura herself was
found dead inside the house, apparently
from wounds to the back of her head
caused by a fall down the basement
steps.
Thisll be an important case for our
firm, I told them. A headline grabber,
and I want everyone steeled for battle
from the get-go.
When I enter our lobby, my secretary,
Angie, looks up at me. No news, I tell
her. The DA is massaging the charges,
so Ill have to go back.
I head for my office, where Susan
joins me a few minutes later. You
okay? she asks. You dont seem
yourself.
Yeah, yeah. This ones close to
home, thats all.
Susan considers this. Given your
friendship with David, maybe I should
handle the case. Or maybe we should
steer him to another firm.
I tell Susan Ill consider it.
But there is no way Im letting this
case out of my hands.

I call Tommy as I walk back to the

courthouse. My call goes to voice mail,
so I leave him a message to call me right
away. On the bench this morning is Delia
Smick, who was a bail commissioner
until her title was changed to
arraignment court magistrate. A tough
cookie in her midforties, Delia has
graying black hair and the raspy
cigarette voice of a Melrose Diner
waitress. Shes wearing a black shirt
with white polka dots that goes well
with her hair and the black-framed
glasses perched at the end of her nose.
The magistrate recognizes me and
sighs when I walk into the courtroom.
Thats because my presence means the
perp in her next case will be represented
by private counsel rather than a public
defender. Private attorneys, especially
those hired by wealthy clients, can be
pesky. The judge lowers her gaze to the
computer and begins to read the
complaint. Her eyes widen when she
sees who the defendant is. Once or twice
while reading she looks up at me, then
back down at her screen.
A couple of minutes pass. The young
ADA who was there that morning is
nowhere to be seen. Her Honor asks me
if I know where he is, but before I
answer, I see her eyes grow wide again,
and she says to someone behind me, To
what do we owe the honor?
Turning around to follow the
magistrates gaze, I am shocked when I
see Devlin Walker, the first assistant
district attorney. Only in the rarest cases
would a senior DA show up at a
preliminary arraignment. That the first
assistant himself would appear is
unheard of.
Walker is wearing a double-breasted
black suit with a silver-and-black
striped tie over a blazing-white, crisply
starched shirt with French cuffs held shut
by gleaming onyx cuff links. Devlin
walks directly over to me and extends
his hand. I can see hes measuring the
level of my surpriseone small factor
to add to the calculus that will become
our contest in this case.
Devlin Walker is an imposing
presence. A former star basketball
player for Central High, he stands six
four and weighs an easy 215, not an
ounce of which is fat. Devlin has a large
head, square jaw, and wide-set eyes. His
forty-four years have just begun to salt
his hair, which he keeps short and
perfectly combed. Devlin composes his
face as a study in seriousnessan
acknowledgment of the enormous
responsibility the people have placed on
him, and his pledge that he will not let
them down. The same sense of
responsibility carries over to Devlins
role as a pillar of the African American
community. City employees are required
to live within city limits, so, unlike many
prominent black officials who reside in
Chestnut Hill or some other upscale
section of the city, Devlin keeps his
home on the Penn campus in West
Philadelphia, just a mile from the row
houses in which he was raised. Within
his neighborhood, Devlin is an icon.
Hes a deacon in the Rock of Ages
Baptist Church, a Big Brother, and a Boy
Scout leader. It is accepted wisdom in
the DAs office that Devlin will succeed
his boss as district attorney.
Devlin and I have a history. He was,
to put it simply, my major rival at the
DAs office. Devlin graduated law
school two years before I did and was
one of my mentors for a time. I found he
was someone I could go to for both
practical advice and help on issues of
law. Then something happened that
cooled him toward me. Devlin began
taking note that, like him, I was working
seven days a week and always on the
hunt for bigger cases to handle. Youre
on his radar, a colleague warned me.
Watch out. During the next several
years, Devlin won a number of important
cases and, in the flush of his victories,
became more magnanimous, more
indulgent toward me again. Then when I
began trying and winning major jury
cases, Devlin went back on the
offensive. Criticism of how Id prepped
certain witnesses or tried a case would
float into the ear of a senior ADA,
whod then happen by my office and
question me about it. Or Devlin would
suddenly steal away a junior ADA who
was working to help me prepare for
trial. Sorry, man, Devlin would say.
Got an emergency. Have to pull rank.
Then came my string of high-profile
drug-trafficking victories. Devlin
declared all-out war against me. I wont
pretend it was a one-sided battle by
then. I was incensed at what I felt to be
an unprovoked attack, so I began to
impede Devlin and to enlist other ADAs
to help me. By the time I decided to end
my career as a prosecutor, a dozen of the
more ambitious attorneys had aligned
themselves with me against Devlin, and
vice versa. Either Devlin or I, most
believed, would eventually become
district attorney. So bets were placed on
whose coattails to hang on to.
It shouldnt have surprised me, then,
that when I announced my decision to
leave for private practice, my supporters
directed a great deal of anger toward
me. A few did everything they could to
persuade me to change my mind, fearing
that Devlin would direct all the good
cases to his guys and the junk cases to
them.
My colleagues worries proved to be
unfounded. Devlin Walker didnt punish
the attorneys who had aligned
themselves with me; he didnt have to.
Hed won the war. So, Devlin, ever the
strategist, did what America did to the
Germans and Japanese after World War
II: he co-opted his former enemies, made
them into his allies. The result was that
my former friends continued to hate me
for leaving, but they ended up loving
Devlin Walker.
So, I wonder, why is he here today?
Devlin hands me the complaint as he
looks up at the magistrate and declares,
This is a very serious matter, Your
Honor. A promising young woman is
dead. A young woman who had
information vital to an ongoing grand-
jury investigation. Information that may
now be lost forever. And now shes the
victim of a premeditated murder.
Magistrate Smick rolls her eyes.
Why the speech, Mr. Walker? Theres
no jury here. No press. Oh, wait. Is that
Ms. Cassidy I see? I glance back and
see Patti Cassidy, a reporter for the
Philadelphia Inquirer. Now, how did
you know to be here?
I hear Judge Smicks words through a
fog. Devlins reference to premeditation
has jarred me. I begin to review the
complaint, knowing what Ill find.
Despite what the young ADA told me,
the DAs office is charging David
Hanson with first-degree murder.
Scanning the complaint, I see
something that grabs my attention. The
DA is alleging that, before he fled the
scene, David had tried to clean the house
of evidence. The complaint says the
dishwasher was running, the vacuum
was sitting in the middle of the floor.
Cleaning supplies and rags were sitting
on various tables.
I lift my eyes from the complaint to
the small flat-screen television sitting by
the judges bench, just in front of the
defense table. The image is of David
sitting in a cluttered cinder-block room
in the Ninth District station house. He is
looking right at the camera, but his eyes
are glazed. Im not sure how much he
sees or comprehends.
The magistrate asks Devlin what the
Commonwealths position is regarding
bail.
Walker answers immediately. The
people vehemently oppose bail. Bail is
almost never accorded in murder cases.
And we need to send a message to the
community that no exceptions will be
made just because a defendant is rich
and connected.
Magistrate Smick looks at me over
her readers. Is that your position,
Mr. McFarland? That I should allow
your client to be released just because
hes got a lot of money?
Of course not, Your Honor.
Mr. Hanson should be released on bail
because its called for by the guidelines.
First, the primary purpose of bail is to
secure a defendants appearance at trial,
and there is no chance that Mr. Hanson
will fail to appear. He has close ties to
the community; indeed, he is a
community leader. And he is highly
motivated to appear for trial in order to
prove his innocence and restore his good
reputation. The second purpose of bail is
to ensure the safety of the community.
Theres no reason to believe that
whoever killed Ms. Yamura has a larger
plan to harm additional people.
Certainly, theres no basis to believe that
Mr. Hanson would perpetrate some sort
of crime spree. Finally, there are facts
that cast doubt on Mr. Hansons guilt.
For example?
The fact that the complaint doesnt
state when Ms. Yamura was killed, let
alone that it was close in time to
Mr. Hansons having been found in the
house. Furthermore, the complaint
alleges no specific motive for
Mr. Hanson to have killed Ms. Yamura.
Devlin heatedly argues the points,
conceding that although the preliminary
forensicsprimarily the temperature of
the bodypoint to a time of death many
hours before David was captured fleeing
the house, he was caught trying to clear
the house of evidence. Devlin then
claims that Hansons motive will
undoubtedly become clear as additional
facts are uncovered.
Magistrate Smick stops the argument
and reminds Devlin and me that a
preliminary arraignment is not the place
to decide the merits. She sets bail at half
a million dollars. I see David exhale
with relief through the CCTV. Its the
first sound Ive heard from him
throughout the proceeding.
Will you be waiving the preliminary
hearing, Mr. McFarland?
Yes, Your Honor. Most experienced
defense attorneys will opt for a
preliminary hearing to learn details of
the prosecutions case. I dont want a
preliminary hearing for David because
the resultthat the court will find
sufficient evidence to bind David over
for trialis a foregone conclusion. If
we hold a public hearing, the details of
the young womans death and Davids
flight will wind up all over the media.
After the arraignment, I approach
Devlin Walker in the hallway. Murder
one? I say. Really?
Devlin looks down at me, his face set
in stone. Murder one, Mick. Really.
You cant even put him in the house
at the time of death. By your own
admission, it was hours after the crime
that the police saw him leaving.
Not leaving. Running away. After
spending an undetermined amount of
time trying to clean up his mess. As for
his whereabouts at the time of death, if
he wasnt with the victim, where was
he? If he has an alibi that can be
corroborated, then this is all just a big
misunderstanding, and Ill drop the
charges.
Do you really think there was
premeditation? That he went into the
house intending to kill her?
I dont know whether he went there
with a plan to kill her or whether he
formulated that plan once he was alone
with her. But you know as well as I that
the period of premeditation can be very
brief. Thats criminal law 101. Walker
pauses, then adds, On the other hand,
your client and the decedent could have
gotten into a fight. He could have flown
off the handle and pushed her down the
stairs in a fit of rage. That would only be
voluntary manslaughter. I could see that.
Is your client thinking of coming clean,
pleading out?
That would be nice, wouldnt it?
Your first-degree murder charge scares
my client into admitting that he killed her
in the heat of passion? A quick, easy win
for the prosecution, and one step closer
to becoming district attorney?
Devlin flinches at my reference to his
ambition. Lets not make this personal,
Mick.
The defendant is a close friend of
mine, I answer, almost choking on the
words. I wont be serving you any
silver platters here. You want this one,
youre going to have to take it from us.
Devlin leans into me. Thats exactly
what Im paid to do.
With that, he turns and walks away.
It takes two hours to arrange for
Davids bail. We are set upon as soon as
we leave the station house. Reporters
surround David and me and follow us
down the block like a swarm of yellow
jackets. They jam microphones into our
faces as we walk toward the car I have
waiting outside.
Did you kill her?
Were you having an affair?
Why did you try to hide evidence if
you didnt do it?
Once were at the firm, I sit David in
a conference room and tell Angie to get
him some coffee. Ill be back in a
minute, I tell David.
 I go into my office, sit behind the
desk, take a breath.
But before I have time to think, Angie
calls on my speakerphone. Patti
Cassidy from the Inquirer is on the line.
She wants a quote.
I sigh, say Ill take it, and let Cassidy
machine-gun questions at me. When
shes spent, I count to three and say,
Okay, Patti, heres my statement.
Mr. Hanson will cooperate fully with the
police in the investigation into
Ms. Yamuras death. Hes as eager as
everyone else for the real perpetrator to
be apprehended and brought to justice.
Before Patti can attack me with a
barrage of follow-up questions, I hang
up. I hope she quotes me word for word.
I want to convey to the reading public
i.e., the potential jurorsthat David is
cooperating and that the investigation is
ongoing, implying that even the police
arent sure they got the right guy.
Bullshit, of course, but, hey.
I return to the conference room, tell
David to go home. Well meet again on
Monday and discuss the case in detail. In
the meantime, say nothing to anyone
about the charges, or your guilt or
innocence. Except to Marcie, of course.
Davids face turns white at the
mention of his wifes name. Shes
visiting her sister in Los Angeles, with
the boys. He holds up his cell phone. I
just left a message with her brother-in-
law. I told him to tell her Id been
arrested, but that its all a huge mistake
and that she shouldnt believe anything
she hears. David looks like hes about
to break. He looks down at his shoes,
then back up at me. This isnt going to
just go away, is it?
No. The DAs going to push hard to
convict you.
But I didnt do it.
That doesnt matter, I say. Once
the DA charges someone, the
prosecutors and police stop looking for
another perp and work together as a
conviction machine. Ive been there. I
know how it works. They wont stop
until they get a plea or a guilty verdict.
I walk David through the firms
reception area and watch him leave the
office. He already looks like a dead
man walking, I say to Angie.
She doesnt answer me, but from the
look on her face, I can tell what shes
thinking: He threw that poor girl down
the steps; he deserves what he gets.
For the next hour, I create a computer
file for the Hanson case and type in
everything I know about it.
Angie calls me over the
speakerphone. Detective John Tredesco
is calling on the Hanson case. Want me
to say youre not here?
I think for a minute, then tell Angie
Ill take the call.
Hello, Detective.
So I hear your client is eager to
cooperate with the police, Tredesco
says snidely. When can I expect to meet
with him and take his statement?
Funny as ever, John. Tredesco is
known for having no sense of humor. At
all.
Theres a pause at the other end of the
line. So youre telling the press that
Hanson is doing everything he can to
help us out, but hes not even going to
meet with us? How is that helping our
investigation?
I smile. By making sure that a jury
isnt bamboozled into finding
Mr. Hanson guilty. He and I will,
ultimately, free the police department
and the DA up so you can find the real
culprit.
So I guess that means you wont
agree to produce a DNA sample?
Youll get it when you file your
motion.
Thats the way its going to be, eh?
Its a murder case, John.
Thats exactly what it is. And your
client is the murderer.
With that, the line goes dead.
I know the DAs motion to compel a
DNA sample will be filed with the court
by morning and granted by the afternoon.
My refusal to volunteer Davids spittle
is pointless. But, like I said to Tredesco,
this is a murder case. Im going to make
the prosecution dot every i and cross
every t to get what they want.
I buzz Angie, ask whether Tommys
called me back. She says he hasnt, so I
dial his cell again. Its the only phone he
has. Voice mail. Im not happy. I want to
hit the ground running, but my
investigators gone AWOL.
I leave the office at 4:30. In the car on
the way home, I call Piper. She asks how
it went with David. I pause, then tell her
the prosecution is going for murder one,
and that it seems Devlin Walker himself
will be handling the case. I hear Piper
take a deep breath. Before I can say
anything else, she tells me shes tired but
that she has long-standing plans to go out
with two of her girlfriends. Im tempted
to snipe that I knew nothing about those
plans, but its just as well that Ill be on
my own for the evening. I need time to
think. The Hanson/Yamura thing is going
to be complicated. A murder case is an
unruly beast under the best of
circumstances. And these are not the best
of circumstances.

By six oclock, Im sitting behind the

desk in my home office, eating a Primo
Italian hoagie that I picked up on my way
home. On the wall across the room from
me is a large flat-screen TV. I pick up
the remote and turn on the local news.
The dapper Action News anchor, Jim
Snyder, leads off with the handsome
millionaires brutal slaying of a
promising young reporter. The newsman
begins with a brief recap of Jennifer
Yamuras budding career, starting with
her graduation from college, her brief
stints as a field reporter in smaller
markets, her jump up to Philadelphia,
and her recent scoop in breaking the
story about the DAs investigation into
the crooked-cop ring. Then he feeds the
audience with background on David
Hanson. He tells them that David is
forty-two years old, that he was raised
along Philadelphias Main Line, where
he attended Episcopal Academy, an
ostentatiously expensive private school
attended by the offspring of the regions
wealthiest citizens. That he graduated
seventeen years ago from the University
of Pennsylvania Law School. That hes
an executive vice president and general
counsel of Hanson World Industries, the
multi-billion-dollar Philly-based
conglomerate Davids grandfather
founded eighty years before. Then Jim
moves to the juicy stuff. He says the
police apprehended David as he ran
from Jennifer Yamuras house, that he
appeared to have been trying to clean the
house of his fingerprints and hair, and
that he may have been having an affair
with the young reporter. As the pice de
rsistance, the news shows producer
flashes a photo taken of David and
Jennifer standing together at a black-tie
charity event. Both of them are smiling,
and the teleprompter tells Jim to say that
the picture was taken in happier times
for both David Hanson and Jennifer
Yamura.
Being early June, its still light out at
seven, so I decide to drive over to
Valley Forge Park for a quick six-mile
run. A couple of hours after I get back,
Piper returns. She tells me she had too
much to drink at dinner and that the
lobster isnt agreeing with her. She
makes another early night of it.
I call Tommys cell phone once Piper
is upstairs but still cant reach him. I
figure hes hiding out at his trailer near
Jim Thorpe, a small town eighty miles
north of Center City. He goes there to
brood when hes in one of his funks.
Hopefully, hell work himself out of it
by Monday. I leave a message telling
him I need him on the Hanson case. He
must have heard about it on the news.
Come on, Tommy. Dont disappear
on me now.
 3
SATURDAY, JUNE 2

The weekend passes slowly. On

Saturday I play a round of golf at
Aronimink, the country club Piper and I
joined at the insistence of her father,
Thatcher Gray. My foursome includes
my next-door neighbor along with two
criminal defense attorneys. They pepper
me from the get-go about the Hanson
case, and I deflect their questions for
three or four holes until they get the hint
that Id rather not talk about it.
When I get home, Piper tells me shes
handed Gabby off to her parents for the
entire weekend. Im not happy.
I thought we agreed to take Gabby to
Longwood Gardens tomorrow, I say.
She was looking forward to it.
Piper shrugs and says shes taking a
day trip to New York with her friends.
Dont you think you should have
asked me before you sent our daughter
away? I ask. You know things will
heat up quickly with the Hanson case. I
may not have a lot of free weekend days
for a while.
Piper cocks her head. Its really not
a big deal, Mick. Just go play another
round of golf.
 I hear her open and close the back
door on her way to the garden. Through
the kitchen window, I watch her lay out a
dozen or so potted flowers to plant. She
arranges them three different ways
before settling on a pattern. I close my
eyes, shake my head.
I met Piper during my seventh year
with the DA, while I was busy with a
high-profile murder trial. The defendant
was a young neurologist whod killed
his wife to clear the way for a
relationship with his married next-door
neighbor, with whom hed been having
an affair. The case garnered a lot of
news coverage, largely because of the
salacious details that came out in the
testimony. Quickies in the kitchen. Blow
job at the barbeque. It all made for
quality journalism. Even Anchorman
Jims eyes sparkled as they scanned the
teleprompter.
I was in the office late one night,
working on the case, when District
Attorney Ned Hoffman came into my
office and ordered me to accompany him
to a political fund-raiser at the art
museum. Neds date had canceled on
him at the last minute, and he needed
someone to go with him.
An hour later, Ned and I were
standing together in the grand staircase
discussing my trial when a tall, rail-thin
man in his fifties approached us with a
stunning young woman in tow. Having
attended political functions before, Id
assumed the woman was a trophy wife
or an escort. Then Thatcher Gray
introduced himself and his daughter,
Piper.
Thatcher is a partner at Morgenthau
Harrison, Ned told me. Tom, this is
Michael McFarland, whom youve
probably read about in the papers. Hes
trying the neurologist murder case.
Thatcher Gray nodded his approval.
That surgeon sounds like one rotten
egg, he said. I hope you get a
conviction. Do you think you will?
Before I could answer, Ned
interceded. Micks our best trial
attorney. Relentless. Precise.
Plodding. Tedious, I interjected.
Everyone but Thatcher Gray laughed. I
spoke a little bit about the case, sharing
some details that had not yet been
disclosed at trial.
Pipers father studied me as I spoke.
You seem like a serious young man.
And these days, thats exactly what we
need.
I thought Pipers father was talking
about fighting crime, but I would later
learn his remark was referring to his
daughters dating history. Thatcher Gray
believed shed frittered away too much
time on subpar men.
Piper works right here at the
museum, in the contemporary art
department, her father said. She
studied fine art at Yale. Spent another
year at the Sorbonne.
 Piper rolled her eyes.
Contemporary? As in Picasso?
And one or two others.
You could take Mr. McFarland on a
tour of the collection right now,
Thatcher Gray suggested to Piper, whose
smile vanished.
That would give us a chance to
talk, Ned said, taking the tall lawyer by
the elbow and leading him away.
That was smooth, I said to Piper as
we took the hint and walked off. Like
theyve done this before.
I love my father, but hes a meddler.
Does that mean you wont show
me? I asked. The collection?
Id be glad to get away from this
reception, Piper answered. I only
came because my mother bowed out, as
usual. She hates these things. And I
could hardly claim to my father that I
couldnt make it here because of work.
But Id rather not go back upstairs.
Would you mind if we ducked out of the
building altogether? Grab a bite in
town?
It was a pleasant fall night, and Piper
and I walked the mile or so down the
Ben Franklin Parkway to Center City.
We decided to get something to eat at
Maces Crossing, a tiny pub right on the
Parkway.
We spent the next hour feeling each
other out, sharing the CliffsNotes
versions of our lives. I told Piper Id
gone to college at Penn State and law
school at the University of Pennsylvania;
that I was raised just outside of
Lancaster, a small city about sixty miles
west of Philly; that both my parents were
dead; and that I had a brother. I didnt
tell her that Tommy was serving six
years for aggravated assault at the State
Correctional Institution in Fayette,
Pennsylvania. Piper told me that her
parents had raised her in Villanova.
Shed attended elementary school at
Agnes Irwin in Rosemont, then moved
on to Episcopal, the same school David
Hanson had attended. I already knew
from Pipers father that shed gone to
Yale and then studied in France.
I asked Piper what drew her to art.
She laughed.
 Whats funny? I asked.
Art is part of life. Asking someone
what draws them to art is like asking
what draws someone to air, or food. I
cant imagine a life in which art doesnt
play a major part.
I thought about her answer. And why
contemporary art, specifically?
Because its still alive, she
answered. Still evolving, growing.
Piper told me she appreciated the Old
Masters, recognized their genius. But
when I look at a painting by Rembrandt
or Da Vinci, it feels dead to me. Like
Im in an antique store, looking at a
worn piece of furniture. Thats sacrilege,
I know, and some of my friends at the
museum would have a fit if they heard
me say it. But art has to feel alive to me
for me to enjoy it. Piper talked on for a
while, then she shared her secret
pleasure: abstract expressionism. Artists
like Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko.
Piper said she was entranced by the
exuberance and frank aggression of their
brushstrokes and the resulting intense
imagery of their work. The
nonrepresentational splashes of paint,
which Id always scoffed at, were, for
Piper, liberating bursts of pure passion
unconstrained by antiquated notions of
form and structure.
When Piper had finished, we sat
quietly for a moment. Then she asked me
what drew me to law. I tipped back my
second Guinness. When I was in high
school, I picked up a book about the My
Lai massacre. Thats where a company
of American soldiers slaughtered more
than three hundred civilians in a village
in South Vietnam. Mostly women and
children. The book told the story of the
young military lawyer who prosecuted
Lieutenant William Calley, the only
soldier court-martialed for the massacre.
It told how the lawyer fought against the
high-priced civilian lawyers brought in
to defend Calley. How the lawyer took
the court, step-by-step, through the
massacre until, by the end of the trial,
hed laid out the overwhelming case that
led to Calleys conviction. When I was
done reading the book, I decided that
was going to be me. I was going to
become a lawyer, go after the bad guys,
lead my juries step-by-step through the
crimes, build my cases fact upon fact,
until there was no outcome possible
other than a conviction.
When I was done, Piper waited a
moment and asked, What happened to
that lieutenant?
Calley was sentenced to life in
prison, but his sentence was reduced,
and he served only a few months in a
military jail.
Pipers jaw dropped. Thats
outrageous.
I nodded.
Piper thought for a minute, then asked
if Id ever lost a big case.
One or two, I answered. But
sometimes all you can do is fight the
good fight.
Is that how it feels to you when
youre in court? Like youre fighting the
good fight?
Most of the time. Pretty much all of
the time, I said, though even then I had
some doubts. Ive had a few cases
where I wasnt convinced that a jail term
was warranted. Id seen many cases
handled by other prosecutors where the
state locked someone away it neednt
have. Like Tommy.
So, are you as serious a man as my
father thinks you are?
I had crossed my eyes and stuck out
my tongue. Piper laughed.
I watch Piper now, planting her
plants. One of her favorite things to do.
But I see no joy in her face. Today, the
gardening is just work. Sweat and toil
and the passing of time. Something to
keep her distracted. I sigh, then clench
my teeth, my heart tossed in a
crosscurrent of fury and sadness. I close
my eyes and lower my head. Oh,
Piper.
 4
MONDAY, JUNE 4

When I finally get to the office at 2:00

p.m., Angie greets me, then hands me the
Monday editions of Phillys two papers:
the Daily News and the Inquirer. The
Inquirer is the worse of the two, she
says.
I scan the front-page articles of both
papers as I walk down the hall to my
office. The Daily News article,
headlined Millionaire Murderer?, sits
above a full-color picture of David
Hanson. The article recounts the details
of the death of Jennifer Yamura, then gets
right to the meat: Davids wealth.
According to the article, David earns
more than $1 million a year as general
counsel at Hanson World Industries. His
stock holdings in the company, most of
which he inherited when his father died,
are estimated to exceed $90 million. The
article lists various properties owned by
David, including his estate on the Main
Line, a beachfront shore house in Stone
Harbor, New Jersey, valued at $5
million, and another house in Costa
Rica.
Just wonderful, I say out loud to no
one. This is the kind of reporting that
makes it so difficult to select a fair jury.
The Inquirer article is indeed worse,
though for different reasons. Written by
Patti Cassidy, its headline is The
Millionaires Mouthpiece. It isnt as
much about David as it is about David
and me. It explains that David and I
were classmates at Penn Law, that we
lived together in an apartment with two
other law students during our second and
third years, that we were moot-court
partners, that we both interned at the
district attorneys office, and that I was a
groomsman at Davids wedding. The
story carries over to page two, where
our law-school pig book photos are
displayed side by side. Reporter
Cassidy concludes the article by
mentioning that my firm represented one
of Davids uncles in an insider-trading
case, and that Id handled a drunk-
driving matter for Davids nephew. Patti
calls me the Hanson familys go-to guy
for criminal matters.
The most damning thing about the
article isnt the factual history but the
unwritten insinuation that David and I
are somehow tied together in the crime
itself. This type of accusation could
irreparably poison potential jurors and
ruin any chance of Davids getting a fair
trial. One thing Ive learned in my career
is that, whatever the jurors may think
about a client, it is imperative that they
see his lawyer as acting in good faith;
that is, that the attorney believes in his
client and his clients case. When that
happens, the attorney wins a lot of
goodwill from the jury, and that
goodwill can, in a close case, carry the
day. On the other hand, any hint that an
attorney is knowingly working a con in
the courtroom will cause jurors to
despise him and his client both.
I toss the paper into the trash and call
Tommy again. David Hanson is due in at
three oclock. Id wanted Tommy to sit
in on the meeting, but hes nowhere to be
found. Tommy, I really need you in the
office, I tell his voice mail. This is the
fifth time Ive called. Whats going on?
David arrives fifteen minutes later. I
meet him in the lobby and shake his
hand. His grip is tentative, and he
releases his hand quickly. His face is
drawn, his mouth downturned. His
weekend with Marcie must have been
hell.
I lead him to the conference room,
where I introduce him to Susan and
Vaughn Coburn, our associate. Angie has
been kind enough to bring in a coffee
platter. The silver tray, porcelain cups,
and pastries sit in the center of the table.
No one reaches for any of it.
So, do you have any idea who you
want to handle the case from this point
forward? I ask, getting ahead of Susan.
I can draw you up a list of names,
though I expect you already know the
defense bars biggest players. My offer
is an insincere one. I could never admit
it to anyone, but I would do anything to
keep Davids case.
David stares at me. Youre the one I
called, Mick. I want you.
I breathe a sigh of relief and prepare
to move on. But Susan jumps in.
Thats not a good idea, Susan says.
If you read the Inquirer this morning,
you already got a taste for what the press
is going to do. And its never a good
idea to let a close friend handle a case
this important.
Ive known Mick a long time,
David says. I know I can count on him.
My gut twists, but I say nothing, just
nod my head. David and I study each
other for another long moment. All
right, then, lets get to it.
 I open my leather portfolio and pull
out the yellow legal pad inside. Then I
remove the Montblanc pen from my shirt
pocket and lay it on the table. Before I
begin writing anything down, I start,
looking directly at David, I want to say
something very important. If you
committed the crime
I didnt! David interrupts.
Please let me finish. If you did do it,
and if you have any intention of going to
trial rather than accepting a plea, you
must not tell me or any member of the
firm that you did it. Under the code of
ethics, a defense counsels ability to
question his client at trial is severely
circumscribed when the lawyer knows
the client is guilty.
 David leans forward. I went to law
school, too. I know the rules. But,
please, will you just listen to me? I.
Didnt. Do. It.
I nod. Im glad to hear that. It makes
our job easier. All we have to do is tell
the truth. Which means, at this point, that
it is imperative that you do tell the truth
to me and Susan and Vaughn. The truth
about everything even remotely
connected to the crime. What you were
doing at the time of the murder. Your
relationship with the victim.
Why you were in the victims house
at 11:30 at night, trying to sterilize the
place, Susan adds.
Everything, I say. Understand?
I get it, David says.
 I nod again, pick up my pen. Okay,
then. Tell us what happened.
David looks around the room, at me,
then Susan and Vaughn. He takes a deep
breath. Well, you know about Marcie,
he says to me. Her illness. David
looks at Susan and Vaughn, sees that they
dont know. My wife, Marcie, was
diagnosed with breast cancer four years
ago. The doctors said all she needed
was a lumpectomy and some radiation.
So she had the procedure and the
radiation, and that was supposed to be
the end of it. Marcie plowed through it
and seemed to have recovered. Her first-
year exam was clear, and we breathed a
sigh of relief. But at the two-year mark,
the cancer was back, and the doctors
told her she had to have a mastectomy.
They gave her genetic testing and
discovered she was at high risk for
developing cancer in her reproductive
system as well, so she had her uterus and
ovaries removed, too. She lost her
breasts, her uterus, her hair. She was
sick as a dog again, from the chemo.
Then she started on a drug called
Tamoxifen, and it threw her into
menopause. That was last September
eight months agoand she hasnt been
the same since. She was depressed all
the time. She didnt sleep. Constantly
snapped at the children, at me. I dreaded
coming home at the end of the day. I
know it sounds terrible, but its true. Its
. . . awful.
 He pauses, and we all nod our
understanding.
Anyway, it all got to me. The stress.
The worry. I needed to escape,
somehow. I was weak. I ended up
making a big mistake . . . with Jennifer.
David stops here, looks at me, at
Susan, at Vaughn.
Susan glances at me, then says, So
you had an affair . . . because your wife
got cancer?
David snaps, Dont judge me. You
dont know what its been like. I wanted
to be there for Marcie. I was there for
Marcie.
Susan closes her eyes. Shes biting
her tongue so hard I wont be surprised
if it starts bleeding.
 I know its wrong, what I did. Ive
hurt Marcie terribly. And I feel awful.
How long, I ask, were you seeing
Jennifer Yamura?
Not long at all. A month, six weeks.
We met at that charity event in January or
February. We got together a few times
after that. It was just a casual thing.
Whats a few times?
I dont know. A handful. Five, ten.
Ten is two handfuls, Susan pipes in.
David pretends not to hear her.
Where did you get together? I ask.
Always at her house. Never in
public. And I came in the back door,
through the alley, so no one would see
me.
When is the last time you saw
Jennifer Yamura alive? asks Susan.
Maybe a week before she was
killed. We got together.
Not on Thursday, the day of the
murder? I ask. Youre certain?
Absolutely.
I wait a beat, then say, I have a
friend in the crime-scene unit. He said
the official time of death wont be
determined until the autopsy, but based
on the rate of body cooling, CSU
estimates that Yamura was killed
sometime between one and three oclock
Thursday afternoon. So heres the sixty-
four-thousand-dollar question: Where
were you between one and three oclock
on Thursday?
I was at work all morning. David
pauses here. Then I left the office. And,
well, whos to say I didnt just drive
home?
Vaughn speaks up for the first time.
Your parking card, for one.
My parking card?
Your office is in the Comcast
building, Vaughn says. Im guessing
you park in the lot and that youre a
monthly. Theres a computer record
showing every time you enter or leave
the lot. So you cant claim you drove out
at lunchtime unless you actually did.
Vaughn Coburns got a great street
sense, an awareness of the nuts and bolts
of life in the big city. Vaughn grew up in
one of Phillys toughest neighborhoods.
A fair-haired kid of middling height and
weight, Vaughn probably would have
had a hard time except that his uncle was
an ex-boxer who operated a gym where
he trained up-and-coming fighters.
Vaughn spent a lot of time there, working
out and sparring, and he got to the point
where he could handle himself
anywhere. After high school, Vaughn
went to Temple for both undergrad and
law school. Spent two years with the
public defenders office before joining
the firm last year.
I didnt say I did, David says,
suddenly testy. But isnt it the
prosecutions burden of proof to show
where I was when Jennifer was
murdered? Rather than my burden to
show where I wasnt?
 Vaughn, Susan, and I all exchange
glances. David, let me be frank, I say.
The police have you inside a young
womans house late at night for who
knows how long while the womans
body lies on her basement steps. Instead
of calling the police like an innocent
person would do, you decide to try and
erase all history of your presence in the
house. Then when the police do arrive,
you dont open the door for them but run
out the back door and down the alley.
So, prosecutors burden of proof or not,
youd damn well better have an alibi
showing that you were nowhere near
Jennifer Yamura when she was
murdered.
I pause to pour myself a cup of
coffee.
Remember, you already have one
strike against you. On the night of your
arrest, you told Detectives Tredesco and
Cook that you were at work all
afternoon. By now, theyve already
spoken to your staff and found out thats
not the case. So you better have at least
one witness who can place you far away
from Addison Street between one and
three oclock.
David stares at me for a long minute,
then looks to Susan and Vaughn almost
defiantly. There must have been
hundreds of people who saw me. I was
on Kelly Drive. I went for a walk.
Susans mouth opens. Vaughn rolls his
eyes.
 David continues, I left the office
about 1:15. It was beautiful outside, so I
thought Id get some air. I walked to the
parkway and decided to take in the
Chagall exhibit. But when I reached the
museum, it was so nice out I decided to
keep walking toward the boathouses. I
guess my mind wandered, and I ended up
walking the whole way to the Falls
Bridge. Thats where I turned around. I
walked back to Center City, made my
way to Rittenhouse Square, and took in
the art show. Then I walked back to my
office, got in my car, and drove home.
By then it was about six oclock.
I look down at my still-blank legal
pad. I run the river drives a lot. The
round trip from Center City to the Falls
Bridge and back is about ten miles. I
look up and give David a hard stare.
And another mile or so to Rittenhouse
Square and back. All in your business
suit?
Like I said, it was really nice out.
There was no humidity. I didnt even
sweat.
And your work shoes . . . , I add.
I wasnt running, Mick. Its not like
my feet would have gotten hurt.
Did you run into anyone you know?
asks Susan.
David thinks. Im not sure. I dont
think so.
So lots of people saw you, says
Susan, but none who would remember.
Why dont we take a break? I say.
I need to make a couple calls.
Susan, Vaughn, and I file out of the
conference room and go directly to my
office. I sit behind my desk. Susan and
Vaughn take the visitors chairs.
Am I missing something, asks
Vaughn, or is he trying to follow your
advice by telling us he did it without
actually saying the words?
I look at Susan. What do you think?
Im with the Boy Wonder on this
one, Batman.
The door to my office opens, and
Tommy walks in. I didnt get your
messages until this morning. How you
guys doing? he says to Vaughn and
Susan, who sense my irritation and
leave.
 I left you five messages, I say when
Tommy and I are alone, my voice thick
with anger.
Hey, dont jump all over me. I said I
didnt get them.
How can you not get my messages? I
left them on your cell.
I went camping for a couple days.
Come on, man. I get through to you at
your trailer all the time.
I wasnt at my trailer. I just told you,
I went camping. In my tent. Up at
Hickory Run State Park.
Since when do you go tent
camping?
I dont have to tell you everything
about me. You dont tell me everything.
I want to jump up out of my seat and
scream at Tommy. I want to ask him what
the hell he means by that. But I hold my
tongue.
Okay, forget it, I say. Heres what
I need you to do.
Tommy interrupts. You think hes
innocent?
I take a breath. I dont know whether
he is or not. Either way, Im going to do
everything I can to keep him out of
prison.
Tommy stares at me for a long
moment. What do you need from me?
Right now, I want you to sit in on the
rest of our meeting.
Hes here? Now?
Is that a problem?
No problem. Lets go.
 I buzz Angie, ask her to have Susan
and Vaughn come back to the conference
room.
David tenses up the minute he sees
Tommy. Tommys own eyes launch
daggers.
Susan moves right back into the
questioning. We were just about to get
to the night of the murder. So, its
Thursday night. What happens?
David inhales, looks around the room
at everyone but Tommy. I got home
about seven. Took a shower. Watched
some TV. Marcie and the boys were in
California with her relatives, and I was
alone. About 10:30, I decided I wanted
to see Jennifer. So I drove into town. I
parked on Seventeenth Street. I walked
down Waverly Street, the alley behind
Addison Street, knocked on the back
door. Jennifer didnt answer, and the
lights were off. I figured she was out, so
I thought I would go in and wait for her. I
opened the door using my key.
She gave you a key? Susan
interrupts.
Well, yeah. Is that bad?
Just surprising, since you werent
really in a relationship and only saw
each other a handful of times, she
answers, somewhat snidely.
David considers this, then continues.
When I got inside, I turned on the
kitchen light, then started to walk to the
living room. When I was in the hallway,
I saw that the basement light was on, so I
pushed back the bead curtain she has
hanging in the doorway to the basement.
I looked down and saw Jennifer. She
was . . . on the steps. Flat on her back.
Her eyes were open, but she wasnt
moving. So I went down to her, shook
her a little, said her name. Her eyes
stayed open, but she didnt answer and
she didnt move. And there was blood
everywhere. I knew she was dead.
Why didnt you call the police?
Vaughn asks.
I panicked. I thought about Marcie.
With all shed gone through, it would
just kill her if it came out about me and
Jennifer. So I thought, Hey, nobody
knows about us. I never told anyone and
Jennifer promised she wouldnt, either.
That was part of the deal.
Deal? Susan raises her eyebrows.
David pauses. Our understanding!
OurFor chrissakes, Susan, its just a
word.
Lets all take it down a notch, I say.
Keep going. What did you do next?
David exhales. I know it was stupid,
but I decided to clean the place. Get rid
of anything that could point to me. I
mean, it was probably hopeless, but I
had to try. At least get rid of the spare
clothes I kept there. But then I figured I
needed to really clean the place. My hair
and fingerprints. DNA. So I loaded the
dishes into the dishwasher, then started
vacuuming and wiping everything I
could think to wipe. Then I heard the
knock at the door and the guy saying
Police. I froze. I didnt know what to
do. Then they knocked again and started
ringing the bell, too. Finally I responded,
said to hold on a minute, like I was
going to let them in. And you know the
rest. They got me in the alley. Took me
down. Cuffed me. Walked me to the
squad car and stuffed me inside. Next
thing I know the whole street was
jammed with cop cars. David closes
his eyes. Christ, what a nightmare.
What a fucking . . .
Vaughn pours a glass of water for
David, who drinks it empty, then
acknowledges Tommy for the first time
since Tommy and I sat down. Something
passes between them, but I cant tell
what it is.
When I came to the station to meet
with you the next morning, one of the
cops told me that the patrolmen showed
up at the house because a 911 caller said
he heard shouting and loud noises
coming from inside. But youre saying
you were alone with Yamuras body.
I was alone. There was no yelling,
no loud noises. The caller was lying.
David reaches for the pitcher and pours
another glass of water. His hands are
shaking.
We all sit quietly for a moment to
allow David to compose himself. Then I
broach the issue of the fee. For a case
of this seriousness, the firm is going to
do a lot of work, I say. Tommy will
investigate the case to the hilttalk to
all the neighbors, Jennifers coworkers,
everyone who knew her, try to find holes
in the prosecutions case, try to find
someone else with a motive to kill her.
Susan and Vaughn and I will put our
heads together and map out a legal
strategy. Lots of work, lots of hours.
Even before trial. Were going to require
a substantial retainer. Lets start with
seventy-five thousand dollars. As we get
closer to trial, well revisit the rate.
David stiffens. Seventy-five
thousand dollars seems like a lot up
front, Mick.
Susan and I glance at each other.
Were talking about your freedom,
David.
 David looks at me coolly. Id like to
start with fifty thousand. If that runs out
before trial, we can talk.
I shake my head. All right . . . , I
say slowly. Well start with fifty
thousand. But Im not going to hold back
on doing things I think may help just to
save a dime. Thats not how I work,
even when Im not representing an old
friend.
David considers this, then shifts
gears. First-degree murder carries a
mandatory life sentence, doesnt it?
I nod.
David closes his eyes, lowers his
head. Jesus.
All right. I think weve done enough
for now, I say. Why dont you go home
and keep working on things with
Marcie.
I ask Susan, Vaughn, and Tommy to
remain in the conference room while I
escort David out of the office. At the
door to our suite, David absently shakes
my hand, glances at me only briefly
before turning and walking down the
hall. When I get back to the conference
room, the others wait for me to sit.
Tell me about Davids temper,
Susan says. Is he a hothead?
I think back to the time I first met
David, on the first day of civil-
procedure class. I was already seated,
and David came in and sat beside me.
He smiled, introduced himself, held out
his hand. He did the same thing to the
guy on the other side of him. While we
waited for the professor to show up,
David told some funny story that had us
in stitches. In my minds eye, I see David
over the next two years, laughing at the
New Deck Tavern on Sansom Street,
across from the law school, picking up
undergrads, laughing as he drove Cheryl
Cooley and me down to Atlantic City in
his Mercedes convertible, laughing
during a party he and I and our two
roommates threw at our apartment in
West Philadelphia.
I dont remember him that way, I
say to Susan. At all.
People change, Vaughn says. And
the guy was under a lot of stress because
of his wife.
 I dont say anything. Ive heard a lot
of guys say, But thats not me. Thats not
who I am. I was under a lot of stress. I
dont think stress makes a person not
me. I think it brings out the me
beneath the surface.
Why not call? Susan says, out of
nowhere.
I look at her, not understanding.
David says he decided he wanted to
see Jennifer that night, so he just drove
to her house, she says. Wouldnt he
have called first? To make sure shed be
there? And that shed want to see him?
Vaughn picks up on Susans line of
thought. Hed at least have called on
the drive in, or when he got to the house
and saw it was dark. But he didnt say
anything about trying to call Jennifer.
Susan gives me a hard look. He
didnt call before he left his house
because he knew she wouldnt answer.
He didnt call once he got to the house
because he already knew what he was
going to find.
I look at Tommy to see what he thinks
of this. But he doesnt say anything. Just
purses his lips and looks away.
After a minute, I stand up. Susan,
Vaughn, lets each of us write a memo to
the file. Put down everything we know,
everything we think we know, and where
we think it leads. I turn to Tommy.
Come on, I say. We can talk about
where youre going to start. I lead
Tommy out of the conference room and
down the hall to my office, where I close
the door behind us.
What was all that between you and
David? I ask as I sit behind my desk.
You looked like you wanted to tear
each others throats out when we first
walked in.
Just something I dont like about
him. I guess he feels the same way about
me.
You think he did it?
Tommys eyes grow dark. What do
you think?
What I think is that I dont know
whether David did it or not. Either way,
were going to have a real fight on our
hands. Devlin Walkers handling the
prosecution personally. Not just because
its high profile, but because Jennifer
Yamura had just blown open a big
police-corruption investigation.
I dont know why that investigation
should have anything to do with the case
against Hanson. Tommy stands abruptly.
Ill talk to the neighbors. See if
anybody saw anything that could help us.
Then Ill put some feelers out through
some badges I know. Maybe find out if
the DA is planning on holding anything
back from us.
Dont forget about the call.
Tommy looks at me.
The 911 call that led the police to
the house. The guy who called said he
heard yelling and loud noises. Yamura
would have already been dead for hours
when he called. Someone wanted the
police to show up and catch David. And
that means the caller knew Yamura was
dead and wanted David arrested for her
murder. We have to find out who that
caller was and why he is out to frame
David.
I didnt start this job yesterday,
Tommy says.
I watch Tommy leave the office. I
think about his moodiness. His periodic
disappearances. What he must be going
through. I look down at the pictures on
my desk. One is a picture of Piper on our
wedding day. The second is of Gabrielle
at five years old, dressed up for church
on Easter.
The third picture is of Tommy and me
and our parents. Tommy was eight and I
was ten. The four of us are standing on
the beach in Ocean City. Though I
viewed our parents at the time as old, I
see now how impossibly young John and
Penny McFarland were. Young and
attractive and optimistic.
In the picture, John and Penny tower
over us. Tommy and I are both wearing
swimsuits and flip-flops. Im holding a
plastic shovel. And Tommy is wearing
the white cowboy hat he got for his
birthday that year. He wore that hat
everywhere.
Wearing a white hat makes you the
good guy. Thats what Tommy thought.
And being the good guy was a big thing
to my brother. We occasionally got into
fights when we played together because
I wanted to be the good guy, too. But
Tommy would have none of it. When we
played, Tommy always had to be the
cop, and I had to be the robber. He was
the sheriff, and I had to be the outlaw.
Only if I refused to play would Tommy
relent and allow himself to be the bad
guy. But then he would play
halfheartedly.
My mind holds plenty of other
snapshots of Tommy when we were kids.
I see him as a toddler, in a playpen in the
middle of our living room, throwing toys
out and laughing as our mother
scrambled to pick them up. I see Tommy
at six riding his plastic Big Wheel down
our driveway, a Band-Aid on one of his
knees from an earlier mishap. I see him
running down the stairs on Christmas
morning, his arms out in front of him,
ready to tear into the presents under the
tree.
And I see Tommy on that fateful
morning when he was ten and I was
twelve, sitting at the breakfast table. Our
mom, her blonde hair tied on top of her
head with a rubber band, wearing a
sleeveless white-collared shirt, khaki
shorts, and low-cut sneakers, moving
around in front of the stove. Dad sitting
at the head of our small kitchen table, to
Tommys left, reading his Saturday-
morning newspaper, wearing jeans and a
green T-shirt emblazoned with the logo
of the company he worked for: Manheim
Newbestos. I watch my mom serve my
dad his breakfastham-and-cheese
omelet, white toast, baconthen turn
back to the stove. After a moment, she
turns toward the table again, with
Tommys plate. Tommys face brightens
at the stack of pancakes. Mom smiles
back at him and keeps smiling as she sits
suddenly on the floor and lies back until
shes flat on the linoleum. I see Tommy
smiling down at her, about to laugh at the
game shes playing. I hear my dad call
my mothers name, first calmly, then not.
I watch my dad shoot out of his chair and
run around the table to my mother, who
isnt moving at all. Or smiling anymore,
though her eyes are still open. I hear my
dad repeating Moms name over and
over. Then I hear Tommy begin to cry,
and I look over at him and hes weeping
uncontrollably, not really knowing
whats going on but seeing how upset
our dad is. Finally, through my minds
eye, I see myself sitting across the table
from Tommynot moving, not crying,
just sitting there, frozen, taking
everything inuntil I look out the
kitchen window, see a bright yellow
bird, and my eyes follow it away from
the house, across the field, and up and up
and up.
Away.
I stayed away for a long time. I was
still gone at the time of my mothers
funeral. I remember my body standing
next to the casket as it hovered over the
grave. But I wasnt looking at the casket,
wasnt paying attention to whatever it
was the priest was saying. I fixed my
attention on the other side of the
cemetery, where a hearse led a slow
procession of cars to another grave site.
I watched the long black limousine and
the cars behind it come to a stop. I
studied the people getting out of their
cars, some grim-faced, others bored.
After a while, a birds call pulled my
attention to the sky, thick with gray
clouds threatening to break open and
shower the land with tears. But I would
not cry that day. Only Tommy and our
father wept, unable to escape the grief
crushing their hearts like a vice.
 5
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6

Wednesday afternoon finds me on the

sixth floor of the Criminal Justice
Center. Im leaving Courtroom 603
following a victory at a hearing on a
prosecution motion to revoke bail for
one of the firms many repeat clients.
Nice win, counselor.
I turn to see two cops standing in the
hallway behind me. Detectives Tredesco
and Cook. Tredesco is tall and fiftyish
with thinning black hair and a potbelly
sticking over his cracked leather belt.
Cook is pudgy and looks to be in his
midtwenties. His crew cut is blond, his
face is wide and round, just like his
watery blue eyes.
Got a minute? asks Tredesco.
I look at my watch, shrug, glance at
Tredescos partner.
Ed Cook, he says, extending his
hand, something Tredesco hasnt done.
So, hows the Hanson investigation
coming? I ask, looking at Tredesco.
You figure out yet that you got the
wrong guy?
Tredesco laughs, sort of. The
investigations going well. We got a
body and your client standing over it,
trying to clean up the mess.
So whats to talk about?
Im here to give your client a chance
to help himself. The DA might be willing
to go easy on him, let him plead down.
All he has to do is turn over the victims
computer. The money and jewelry he can
keep.
I look from Tredesco to Cook, then
back. Im sure you cant wait to tell me
what youre talking about.
What, Hanson hasnt told you
already? He took Yamuras laptopthe
one with all her noteswhen he
murdered her earlier in the day. He took
her money and her jewelry, too. He
didnt mention any of that?
Wow. Thats dynamite stuff. And if
Hanson can find the laptop, he gets to
cop a plea to what? Manslaughter?
Tredesco glares at me. Shifts from
one foot to the other. Tries another tack.
Look, Mick, you and I go way back. We
worked some good cases together. Put
away some real bad guys.
And some not-so-bad guys, I
interrupt. Tredesco knows who Im
talking about. The year before I left the
DAs office, Id prosecuted Derek
Blackwell, a young numbers runner
Tredesco had arrested for the murder of
a competitor. It was only after Id won a
conviction that someone I knew heard
Tredesco bragging that hed framed
Blackwellapparently hed been
spending time with Tredescos
girlfriend. I confronted Tredesco about it
as soon as I learned the truth. It became
a bone of contention between us, and we
never worked together again.
Get your client to turn over the
laptop. The DA figures its where
Yamura kept all her info on the grand-
jury investigation. If we could look at it,
we could learn who her source was and
press him for more names. Take down
the whole ring, not just a few of them.
Thats why Walkers willing to deal.
I smile, take a minute to think about
what Tredesco has told me. So, to
summarize our conversation so far,
youve given me evidence of at least two
people other than my client with a
motive to kill Jennifer Yamura. A cash-
strapped nonmillionaire who robbed
Yamura of her jewelry and money. And a
snitch cop who betrayed the police
department and desperately doesnt want
his name disclosed. Anyone else have a
motive? Oh, rightall the crooked cops
who havent been identified yet whod
love to have gotten their hands on the
reporters computer and shut her mouth
permanently at the same time.
Tredescos narrow-set, fish-pale eyes
turn to ice. Just remember: I gave you a
chance to help your client.
I smile at the two detectives until they
turn to walk away, but the smiles a lie.
Im worried sick.
Back in the office, Im at my desk when
Tommy walks in. Today hes dressed in
jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-
shirt which, along with his buzz cut and
veal-shank arms, makes him look like a
thug. He takes one of the visitors chairs.
I wait for him to say something. He
doesnt, so I start in myself.
Do you have anything yet? Have you
spoken with the neighbors? Anyone see
anything?
Slow down, Kemo Sabe. Tommys
words are lighthearted, but theres an
edge in his voice. He pauses, rubs his
brow. Im on top of it, all right? I talked
to the neighbors on both sides of
Yamuras house. One guy works in
advertising. He was in New York and
didnt get home until the afternoon after
the murder. So he doesnt know anything.
An elderly, gay couple lives on the other
side. The one guy was asleep in the
afternoon. The other one says he was
watching TV, so he didnt see or hear
anything. They both went to bed around
ten and were woken up after David was
nabbed in the alley and all the cop cars
showed up. I talked to some of the
neighbors across the street, too, and the
ones who were home during the day
didnt see anyone come in or out of the
house all day, not that they were looking
out their window. None of em called
911.
Tommy pauses. While I consider what
hes told me, he reaches over to my
desk, lifts one of the pictures. Its the one
of him and me and our parents at the
beach. I always liked this picture, he
says. Except, did you ever notice how
Mom and Dad and I are all looking at the
camera, but youre looking away? Like
youre somewhere else.
Its a loaded comment, given our
history, and I choose to ignore it.
Anything else, or is that it?
Tommy stands and replaces the
picture. He casts me a hard glance, then
turns and leaves. So much of our
conversations consist of what we dont
say to each other.
After the cerebral hemorrhage took our
mother, it was just Tommy, our father,
and me. The first two weeks after the
funeral were a whirlwind as Dad tried
to keep the three of us out of the house
and away from the bottomless hole
created by our mothers absence. He
whisked the three of us to Hershey Park,
Gettysburg, a Phillies game, tractor
pulls, even the firing range.
After two weeks, Dad had to go back
to work at the asbestos plant, and I was
charged with overseeing Tommy. Dads
rules for Tommy and me that summer
were simple: we were to check in with
Ms. McBreen, a neighbor who agreed to
keep an eye on us, every day for lunch; I
was to keep Tommy near me at all times;
we were not to ride our bikes on busy
streets. Finally, the nearby quarry was
off limitsno swimming, no climbing.
Hunger motivated us to comply with the
first directive. As for the second, it
wasnt totally unbearable for me to have
Tommy tag along, because both of us
hung with a larger group of kids from the
neighborhood. So I could ignore my
pesky younger brother while still
keeping him within eyesight. The rules
about riding our bikes on high-trafficked
roads and not playing in the quarry were,
of course, absurd, and Tommy and I and
all our friendswhose parents had
imposed the same proscriptionsbroke
them at will. I can remember a dozen
times when my friend Mike and I, riding
our Schwinn ten-speeds, led others
down the highway in the baking heat of
summer afternoons, cars and flatbeds
and semis whizzing past us as Tommy
and all the other younger brothers
struggled to bring up the rear. Wed race
for the quarry and the relief its cool,
dangerously dark waters would bring to
our scorched, shirtless backs.
Only once did Tommy and I get into
real trouble with Dad that summer. It
was a weekend day in late August, just
before the new school year, and our
whole group was taking turns swimming
in the quarry and scaling its jagged rock
walls. Tommy and another kid his age,
Danny, were the best climbers.
Spiders, Dannys brother called them
every time Tommy and Danny climbed
the quarry wall, their arms and legs
extended wide as they inched their way
up, down, and sideways. Normally, we
would all ride to the quarry together and
leave together. That day, though, Mike
and I had decided to go off by ourselves.
Mike had heard of a place farther down
in the county where some teenagers
supposedly drag-raced their cars. Mike
said if we rode hard, we could get there
in an hour, watch some action, and still
get home before dinner. I figured Tommy
would be all right at the quarry without
me because the other older kids were
still there. But Mike and I got lost. By
the time we got back, it was almost dark.
I was late for dinner and was
envisioning Dad scolding me while
Tommy smirked. But when I entered the
front door of our house, I could see
instantly that Dad wasnt in a mere
scolding mood. He was furious. Not
because I was hours late, but because
Tommy had not yet come home.
Where is he? our father demanded.
Where the hell is Tommy?
Pride required that I not burst into
tears, but the effort took all my strength.
My mind raced for something to say that
wouldnt get me into even bigger trouble
than I was in already. But there was
nothing to grab hold of. Finally, I blurted
it out. We were at the quarry. Mike and
I left. But everyone else stayed. All the
older kids. And Tommy.
 Jesus Christ! It was hardly the only
time Id heard my father take the Lords
name in vain. But this time was different.
Even at twelve, I could tell that Dad
wasnt cursing out of anger but fear.
Come on! he ordered, and the two of
us hopped into his F-150 and tore for the
quarry.
We found Tommy in the gathering
darkness halfway up the quarry wall,
sitting on a small ledge. I didnt
understand why he was there. The ledge
was only twenty feet above the water
and an easy climb down. Then my eyes
scaled the wall upward until, another
twenty feet up, I saw Danny, hanging on
for dear life. I knew instantly what had
happened: Danny had lost his nerve. He
was too terrified to move. Tommy stood
guard below him, having refused to
abandon his friend.
My father cursed under his breath.
Then he looked down at me. Wait
here, he ordered. Do not move. Then
he made his way along the narrow dirt-
and-gravel path that rimmed the quarry
on one side. The path was just a foot
wide, and Dad had to navigate it facing
the quarry wall, holding on in places to
reach the part of the wall where Tommy
and Danny were perched. In the light of
the rising moon, I could see that our
dads back was soaked with sweat by
the time he reached Tommy. I heard the
two of them talking, and I figured Tommy
was giving Dad directions on how to get
up to Danny, whose whimpering I could
now hear clearly. Then Dad started up
the wall. His climb to Danny seemed to
take forever. I could see that every
movement required intense effort and
concentration. He paused often and
wouldnt move a limb off a hold until he
tested all three other limbs for solid
purchase. He was sucking wind by the
time he was halfway up. But he
continued, talking to Danny, reassuring
him the whole way. Finally, he managed
to reach Danny, got him to hang on his
back, and began the long, torturous climb
back down, Dannys choking arms
wrapped around his throat the entire
time.
Only when Dad and Danny reached
the ground did Tommy begin his own
descent. It was effortless and took him
less than a minute.
I stood at the entrance to the quarry as
Dad, my brother, and Danny made their
way toward me. The four of us stood for
a minute. Danny continued to whimper
while Dad huffed and puffed. Tommy
stood still with his feet apart, glaring at
me.
Everyone left us. And you left us
first. You fucker.
I looked over at our father. Instead of
scolding Tommy, he merely looked back
at me. I could see in his eyes exactly the
same thought Tommy had just uttered:
You fucker.
Its Friday and Im home early, just
before six oclock. Gabby runs out to
meet me in the garage. I bend down and
grab her, then swing her in the air and
cradle her in my right arm. I use my left
to bend down and pet Franklin, who has
ambled up behind his human sister.
Gabby immediately starts in on a story
about the dog chasing a rabbit in the
yard. Her enthusiasm and energy make
me smile, and I stand for a few minutes
as Gabby recounts her tale. Then I carry
her through the hallway and into the
kitchen where, having finished her story,
she impatiently wiggles out of my arms
and runs off to another adventure.
 Piper is in the kitchen, blending
herself a smoothie. She doesnt turn to
face me as she begins anew our now-
ongoing fight about the roof. I reiterate to
Pipers back that we cannot afford a new
$30,000 cedar-shake roof right now.
The only money we have coming in is
Davids retainer, I say. And that isnt
going to go far. Especially since he
cheaped me down on the amount.
Piper turns to cast me a harsh look,
then looks back at the blender and jams a
banana into it. She closes the lid and
turns on the mixer, drowning me out.
I leave Piper and walk into my home
office, sit behind the desk. One of the
photographs on my desk is of Piper on
our wedding day. She is standing on the
lawn after our ceremony, radiant in her
white gown, a broad smile on her face. I
remember the picture being taken, and I
remember exactly what I was thinking: I
cant believe I just married this
beautiful woman.
Piper and I were married in May,
fifteen months after we met. We had
discussed having a small ceremony and
were thinking about Washington Chapel
in Valley Forge Park. Thatcher Gray had
other ideas. His only daughter, he
insisted, was going to have an
appropriately sized wedding at a proper
venue. So Piper and I ended up getting
married at the Church of the Holy Trinity
on Rittenhouse Square in a ceremony
that included seven groomsmen, seven
bridesmaids, the bishop, and three
hundred guests including key partners at
Thatcher Grays law firm, some industry
executives, and local politicians. On our
wedding night, I joked to Piper that Id
had to spend most of the reception being
introduced to my own guests. Paid for
almost entirely by Thatcher Gray, the
reception itself was an ostentatious
affair at the Rittenhouse Hotel.
The first year and a half of our
marriage was the happiest time in my
life. I sold my tiny condo downtown, and
Piper and I used the money to buy a
small twin in Chestnut Hill. I continued
to work hard, riding herd on the citys
bad guys while Piper stayed on at the art
museum. When I wasnt on trial, I made
it home around eight, about the same
time as Piper, and the two of us would
prepare dinner together as we talked and
laughed about our days. On the
weekends, we went out with other young
couplesassistant DAs and their
spouses, Pipers friends from work, and
some law-school classmates of mine
whod decided to practice in Philly
including David Hanson and Marcie.
Piper and I saw ourselves as young and
hip and happy, on the fast track to
fantastic lives.
The only fly in the ointment was
Tommy. Piper admitted to me early on
that she, to some extent, and her parents
were uncomfortable with the fact that my
brother was doing hard time for a
violent crime. I tried to explain to Piper
and her parents that despite his criminal
record, Tommy was not a bad guy, that
hed had a tough time of it growing up
because of what had happened with our
parents. Thatcher answered with the old
chestnut that I, too, had suffered the
deaths of my parents and Id turned out
fine. I replied that Tommy had been
much closer to what happened with my
father because he was still living at
home while I was away at school. Piper
and her mother, Helen, tried to
understand, but Thatcher Gray was
having none of it. To him, the line
between Tommy and me was as clear as
the demarcation between good and evil.
About four months after we were
married, I decided it was time for Piper
to meet my brother. I drove her to the
state prison outside Harrisburg, where
he was locked up. At that point, he
wasnt scheduled to be released for a
couple of more years, but I wanted to
begin breaking the ice between him and
Piper sooner rather than later. I even
dreamed that they might eventually strike
up a true friendship, that Piper would
welcome Tommy into our family once he
was released.
Piper fidgeted the whole way. Her
father had clearly terrorized her with
overblown notions about the danger of
prisons and convicts. The security
procedures necessary to gain entry only
added to Pipers anxiety. And when
Tommy finally entered the visiting room
and I saw Pipers eyes, I knew Id made
a mistake. He strode into the room like a
bull. He must have weighed 220 pounds,
all of it muscle. His head was shaved.
His neck revealed a freshand infected
blue-green prison tattoo. The knuckles
on his hands were black and swollen.
His eyes were flat, his lips tightly
pursed. Halfway through his prison term,
my little brother had successfully erased
all outward appearances of humanity.
Tommy reluctantly allowed me to
give him a brotherly side-hug. Then
Piper stepped around him and tried to
put her arms around him, too, which
didnt go well at all.
The next hour was an exercise in
awkwardness. I tried to start up a
dialogue, but Tommy limited himself to
clipped answers to my questions. For
her part, Piper prattled on and on and on
about the weather, the war, politics,
the ride up, her parents. Everything but
the three of us. In the end, no one
reached anyone.
The drive home was interminable.
Piper regretted having let me bring her
to see Tommy, and she was angry at
herself for botching it. She fell silent
for a long time. Then she looked over at
me and said, Those poor men. Forced
to live like animals in that awful place.
I glanced over and saw a tear running
down the left side of her face. I
remember wondering at that moment
whether she had changed her views
about what I did for a living.
The TV in my office grabs my
attention when it flashes the photographs
of three police officers. The big story on
the six oclock newsbased on the
reporting of the late Jennifer Yamurais
the disclosure of the names of three of
the cops who allegedly participated in
the drug ring and were given immunity to
testify before the grand jury. Im
surprised that Yamura was able to obtain
such confidential information. Everyone
involved in the grand-jury process is
made to swear an oath of secrecy. The
penalties for violating that oath are
severe and include imprisonment. Why
would anyone take the enormous risk of
telling her?
In the wake of Yamuras death, the
station and its lawyers supposedly
struggled over whether to make the
information public. In the end, says
Anchorman Jim, Channel Six had to
attach paramount importance to the
publics right to know. With that, Jim
reads off the names of the policemen:
Officers Terrance Johnson and Stanley
Lipinski, and Lieutenant Lawrence
Washington.
The last name shocks me. I had
worked with Lawrence on a dozen cases
while I was with the DA. He was a good
cop, hardworking and honest. Lawrence
was never the type to plant evidence or
press for inflated charges against a
defendant. He wasnt rough with the
perps, either. He treated everyone with
respect. He was a gentleman.
I stare at Lawrence Washingtons
police photograph. He looks older than
when I last saw him five years ago. Hes
lost some hair. His jowls are looser.
And theres something in the eyes that I
havent seen before. What is it? A guilty
conscience? Sorrow? Or was he simply
tired the day they took the picture? I
shake my head.
Lawrence.
I say his name aloud, feeling suddenly
sad for him, close to him.
I take my eyes away from his
photograph and scan the other two.
Lipinski I know but wish I didnt. A bad
actor. Ive never met Terrance Johnson,
who appears to be much younger than the
other two. I wonder what bad break or
twist of fate motivated him and
Lawrence to betray themselves, their
families, the police force. What surprise
did life spring on them at exactly the
right moment to make two good men go
bad?
 6
MONDAY, JUNE 11

The following Monday, the

prosecutions case materials arrive in
my office. The documents include the
incident reports, a compilation report,
the arrest memo, and the property
receipts of the items that were taken
from David on his arrest, along with the
CSU log. Because Davids case is so
high profile, it has been rushed through
the system, which means that I also
receive the crime-scene photos, autopsy
report, and photographsthey usually
take more time. Still, it will be a while
before I get the fingerprint and DNA
analysis.
I go right to the crime-scene photos. I
quickly scan the shots of Jennifer
Yamuras house: outside, front and back,
and the first and second floors. Then I
focus my attention on the photographs of
the basement steps and her body. My
heart quickens as I look at her face, eyes
open, seeming to stare up at me. I spot
the blood spill on the sixth and fifth
steps from the bottom, the steps her head
must have struck when she fell. I study
the massive pool of blood on the
concrete block at the bottom of the steps,
where her head is lying. And it strikes
me that this is wrong.
Her head should be higher on the
steps. And there are fresh abrasions on
both of her knees. Shes lying on her
back, but her knees are bloodied.
This isnt making sense.
I grab the police reports, which make
mention of the head wounds, the knee
injuries, and some lighter abrasions to
the palms of her handsall injuries that
the investigating officers would have
been able to see with their own eyes.
Deeply confused, I reach for the autopsy
report and learn that the cause of
Jennifers death was exsanguination
from a ruptured artery in the back of her
head resulting from blunt-force trauma
caused when her head collided with the
steps. Going back to the police reports, I
read that the basement floor had been
scrubbed with a cleaning agent but that
luminol testing revealed trace amounts
of latent blood.
There can only be one explanation for
all of this, and it hits me like a bolt of
lightning: Yamura must have survived
the fall down the stairs!
She made it off the steps, crawled
along the basements rough concrete
floor, scraping up her knees and her
hands. Someonewhomever she was
crawling away fromthen took her back
to the stairs and kept her there until she
bled out.
Jesus Christ. I spring from my
chair, close the door to my office. I pace
and think. Then pace some more. A
million questions flood my brain. I sit
down at my desk again, study the crime-
scene photos, the police reports, the
autopsy report, over and over. Jesus
Christ, I repeat. Jesus fucking Christ.

After lunch, and after Ive spent several

hours reviewing and summarizing the
prosecutions evidence, I receive a call
that Ive been expecting from Devlin
Walker. He offers the kind of deal that
Detective Tredesco suggested he might:
David pleads to first-degree
manslaughter, Man One, and Devlin
will urge the Court to impose the
minimum sentence. But, Devlin is
quick to add, any plea agreement has to
include producing that laptop. No
laptop, no deal.
I chuckle. David plead? Are you
serious? Ive just finished reading all the
police reports, and I found more than
enough to make reasonable doubt a
lock.
Like what?
Like the stolen computer you just
mentioned. Along with stolen jewelry
and cash. So, what, youre going to
argue that my millionaire client emptied
Ms. Yamuras wallet, then took her
laptop and jewelry so he could pawn it,
because he needed the money to buy that
double-wide hed always dreamed of
owning?
Please. Your clients a smart man.
He took the computer and the money and
jewelry as a smoke screen to make it
look like a robbery gone bad.
I let his theory hang in the air for a
moment. Why are you involved in this
case at all, Devlin? You havent tried a
murder case in years.
Thats easy. Im running the grand
jury looking into the police drug
syndicate. The decedent had information
critical to the investigation. I had a
vested interest in getting Ms. Yamura in
front of my grand jury and questioning
her. Her murder prevented me from
doing that.
 Its that simple?
Its that simple. Devlin waits a
beat. Hanson killed that young woman,
Mick. Something obviously went wrong
with their affair. He got pissed, pushed
her down the stairs. Then when it was
clear she wasnt going to die, he made
sure she did. Thats cold. And a jury
will crucify him for it. Hell rot in
prison forever. But he can avoid all that
by pleading to Man One. If he produces
the laptop. And it better not have been
opened. Not a single document read. Our
forensics guys will know it if Hanson or
anyone else has even looked at the files.
Please make that very clear to your
client.
Not long after I hang up with Devlin,
Angie buzzes to tell me that David has
shown up at the firm and wants to see
me. I have her bring him back to my
office. David appears haggard and tired.
Still not as bad as he looked the morning
after his arrest, but close.
How are things with Marcie?
Hell, he says. Half the time, shes
screaming at me. Half the time, shes
giving me the silent treatment. Stomping
around the house, slamming doors,
ignoring me. The boys know somethings
wrong between us. I dont know what to
tell them. David pauses here, looks past
me out the window. Her family hates
me. Her sister called me on my cell
phone the other night for the sole
purpose of telling me what a piece of
shit I am.
Davids looking at me now. My own
familys hardly on speaking terms with
me, either. Except Edwin, of course. He
has plenty to say.
Eighteen years Davids senior, his
half brother, Edwin, is the CEO of
Hanson World Industries. Groomed from
an early age to take control of the family
business, Edwin is reputed to be both
brilliant and ruthless.
Such as?
He just told me to take a leave of
absence from the company. It was all I
could do not to hit him in the mouth. I
came here instead, to blow off steam.
Are you going to do as he says?
What choice do I have? Edwin runs
the show.
I think about this. A leave of absence
isnt a bad idea, actually, so long as it
looks like its your idea. You need to
issue a statement that although youre
innocent, youre taking some time off for
the sake of your family, and also for the
good of the company and its many
employees. Itll look selfless and high-
minded of you. Itll also tell potential
jurors that youre already suffering as a
result of the charges brought against
you.
I call Vaughn, explain the situation,
and ask him to draft something.
David asks if thereve been any
developments in the case. I tell him that,
as a matter of fact, Id just that morning
received the prosecutions materials. I
tell David about Jennifers head injuries,
her scraped knees, the blood traces on
the basement floor where someone tried
to clean up. Davids eyes never leave
me as I explain it all. He doesnt move a
muscle.
After I finish, David waits for
moment, then says, But I didnt clean
the basement. I never went the whole
way down.
Which makes me wonder, If David
didnt put her back on the steps, then
who did?
 7
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20

The following week, on Wednesday,

Susan and I are in the conference room
talking about firm finances when Tommy
and Vaughn come in together. We say our
hellos, and I ask Tommy if he has
anything new on the Hanson case. He
lets me know that a cop hes friends with
in the Ninth District has confided to him
that in the weeks before Jennifer
Yamuras murder, her neighborhood had
been struck by a small crime wave of
break-ins and burglaries.
That could be pretty helpful to us at
trial, right? Tommy asks. Supports the
theory that she was killed during a
burglary gone bad? Itd jibe with her
computer and jewelry and cash being
gone.
Absolutely, I say. Ill have Vaughn
serve a subpoena on the police
department asking for all reports of
break-ins and burglaries in that
neighborhood during the six months
before the murderand since. Well see
what we can flush out. Good work.
Anything else? How about those three
cops? I ask, referring to the three
cooperating police officers who had
been named two weeks earlier.
Word on the street, Tommy
answers, is that Terrance Johnson is
holed up in a hotel room downtown,
being guarded by some cops assigned to
the DAs office. Lipinskis spending his
days drinking himself blind at a North
Philly cop bar, daring them to come and
get him.
And Lawrence Washington? I ask.
Off the radar. Hes the smart one.
Susan looks at Tommy. You really
think the bad cops will actually try to
kill those three?
Tommy nods. A message for anyone
else thinking about turning states
evidence. And three dead cops floating
facedown in the Schuylkill River would
be a pretty loud message.
We talk a little more, then they leave
me alone in my office. I think about the
robberies in Yamuras neighborhood and
ponder whether I could persuade a jury
to believe that Yamura was merely
another random victim in Phillys
endless stream of murders. That David
didnt scrub the house because hed
killed Jennifer, but because he found her
already dead and freaked out about
being identified as her lover. But why
would a home invader drag Jennifer
back to the steps to wait for her to bleed
out and die rather than simply run away?
Whatever tack I take, Ill have to deal
with the fact that David had no problem
casually traipsing around the house one
flight above the murdered corpse of his
lover, perhaps for hours. Not something
youd expect a person to be able to
stomach.
Unless he was a sociopath.
Ill have to carefully plan my
portrayal of David to the jury and craft a
story to fit it. Reciprocally, Ill need to
figure out how to cast Jennifer Yamura
herself.
I had met Yamura twice. The first
time was at a black-tie charity gala
sponsored by Project Home to raise
money for the homeless. I was standing
with Jack Lafferty, a chief inspector and
one of only a handful of cops I could
still count as friends after Id left the
DAs office. Jennifer Yamura was petite,
thin, and no taller than five two. She had
slender arms, highlighted by her
sleeveless blue-sequined dress, and tiny,
well-manicured hands. Her face was
round, with almond eyes tilted slightly
upward at the ends. Jennifer Yamuras
white teeth were flawlessly aligned, and
the overall effect of her face was so
striking that she couldve been featured
in one of those Korean Air TV
commercialsexcept that her ancestry
was Japanese.
She had planted herself in front of us
and greeted Jack. How have you
been?
Well enough, Jack answered coolly.
And youre Mr. McFarland, one of
the rising stars of the criminal-defense
bar. Yamura said this with just enough
irony to make it more cutting than
complimentary.
Ive tried a few cases, I said.
Bet you have some good stories.
She smiled.
Is that why youre here? I asked.
Looking for a story?
Im here to support the cause. But, of
course, Im always looking for a story.
You have one you want to share?
I tried to think of something glib but
fell flat.
Yamura persisted, asking questions
about my practice. The inquiries seemed
innocuous enough, but I got the distinct
impression I was being studied, probed.
Evaluated for my potential usefulness.
 Jack turned to me after Jennifer
Yamura had walked away. That ones
radioactive, he said. She glows real
pretty. Just dont get too close. He then
proceeded to tell me all he knew about
her. Jennifer Yamura was socially
ubiquitous. She frequented cop bars as
often as she attended high-end social
events. She went to Flyers, Phillies,
Sixers, and Eagles games. She attended
all the citys ethnic parades. She
participated in and reported from the
Broad Street Run in May and the
Distance Run in September. And, of
course, she attended all the political
rallies, press conferences, and
contentious city-council meetings.
She seems to be everywhere, all the
time, Jack said. On the hunt, trying to
bag the big scoop that will land her in an
anchors chair.
I looked across the room to see
Jennifer Yamura talking to the mayor.
She touched his wrist, laughing at
something he said.
She seems enthralled, I told Jack.
Im sure thats exactly what she
wants him to think.
I shelve the memory and remind
myself that Jennifer Yamura was
someones daughter. That, somewhere,
her parents are shattered by her loss.
This grim thought sends me back to
the birth of my own daughter. I see Piper
on the birthing table, squeezing my hand
so hard I thought shed break it, until the
obstetrician lifted our tiny, purple baby
into the air.
Oh my God, I had whispered, my
heart awash in joy. I looked down at
Piper, who was crying, and it was my
turn to squeeze her hand.
We took Gabrielle home with us the
next morning, after Pipers parents
stopped by the hospital to see the baby.
As I drove our precious new cargo
through the city streets, I felt an
unfamiliar sense of fearthe first of
many moments of new-baby terror I
would experience over the next month.
Gabrielle was so tiny and looked so
fragile to me that I held my breath the
first fifty times I held her. Piper laughed
at my obvious trepidation.
 Youre not going to break her, shed
say.
Of course not, I would agree, but I
continued to handle Gabby like a pack of
nitroglycerin.
During the early days of Gabbys life,
Piper and I spent hours next to Gabbys
crib, watching the gentle rhythm of her
breathing, overwhelmed by the new life
wed created.
I remember one afternoon, sitting
there, stroking her thick black hair and
letting my mind carry us both into the
future where Gabrielles life would
unfold. I envisioned her as a toddler,
crawling along the floor looking for new
things to touch and lift and put into her
mouth. I saw her walking between Piper
and me, looking up at us, holding our
hands as we escorted her to the bus stop
for her first day of kindergarten. I saw
Gabby sitting in fifth grade, drawing
hearts and writing the name of some boy
she had a crush on over and over again
inside the cover of her notebook. I saw
her, gawky and long-legged, crying on
her bed as a teenager. I saw her walking
next to me down the aisle as I steeled
myself to hand her off to a better man.
And I saw her in a hospital bed, cradling
her own firstborn child.
Jennifer Yamuras father must have
had the same experience with his own
daughter, the same hopes and visions for
her future. A future that ended in a pool
of blood in a dark basement. Thinking
this cuts me to the bone.
 8
TUESDAY, JULY 10;
FRIDAY, JULY 20;
THURSDAY, JULY 26;
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1

Three weeks pass. The Hanson case is

pushed off the front pages by other,
equally sad stories: a local congressman
faces corruption charges while his son is
convicted on twenty-two counts of bank
and tax fraud; a local man is on trial for
allegedly shooting his stepdaughter and
then videotaping himself having sex with
her corpse.
On a Tuesday in the second week of
July, I get to argue the Justin Bauer case
before the state supreme court. Its been
said of Pennsylvania that its made up of
Pittsburgh on the west end, Philadelphia
on the east, and Alabama in the middle.
Geographically, most of the state is
populated by staunch conservatives who
hold a dim view of the rights of criminal
defendants, a view historically well
represented by the justices elected to our
states supreme court. The panel that
faces me now, however, gives me reason
for optimism. Last year, two of our
Republican justices were forced off the
bench when the state attorney general
released copies of pornographic and
misogynistic e-mails exchanged by the
justices and members of law
enforcement. They were replaced by two
Democrats who both began their careers
as criminal-defense attorneys.
From the get-go, the courts
questioning makes clear that most of the
justices are as convinced as I am of the
ineptitude of Justin Bauers trial
attorney. But thats not enough. I have to
show that the trial attorneys ineptitude
so undermined the truth-determining
process that no reliable adjudication of
guilt or innocence could have taken
place. In other words, I have to convince
the justices that, were it not for the trial
attorneys blunders, there would have
been a good chance Justin would not
have been convicted.
Its a high hurdle.
The rules of appellate procedure do
not require the defendants presence in
the courtroom during oral argument. But
I have brought Justin nonethelessand
Celine as well. Not because I expect
theyll understand the nuances of my
legal argument, but because I want them
to see the passion with which I present
their side. Justin was let down by his
former attorney, and I believe its
imperative that he and his mother
witness a lawyer actually fighting like
hell for them. Theyre owed at least that.
 The argument goes as I expect. The
justices are tough on both sides but more
on me than the prosecution. Still, I hear
in their questions an openness that I
havent come across in a long while.
After the hearing, I walk Celine into the
hall. She grills me on the questioning,
wanting to know why the judges were
pressing me so hard. I do my best to
explain, wishing the law werent so
obtuse. In the end, all I can do is leave
her with a sense of guarded optimism
and, hopefully, the feeling that, finally,
the law is hearing her and her son.

The next two weeks bring a heat wave.

Day after day of high humidity and
ninety-degree temperatures require me to
change shirts twice a day. The heat
makes me yearn for the beach. Makes me
remember how, when we were first
married, Piper and I used to bolt out of
Center City every Friday afternoon in the
summers and head to Cape May, where
wed rent a room in a bed-and-breakfast.
The first time wed gone to the beach
together was when wed just started
dating.
Next to the museum, this is my
favorite place, Piper told me as we
walked the broad sand beach toward the
lighthouse. When I look out at the
ocean, at all that open space, it feels like
time, too, expands. That the pace of
everything slows down. And if I stop
and stand here facing the oceanPiper
continued, doing soand take a deep
breath . . . it feels like the whole world
is inhaling with me. And all the
pressures of the world melt away.
Piper turned to me when she said this.
She smiled when she finished and, in
that instant, her beauty struck me. It
physically struck me. The shimmering
blonde of her hair as it danced around
her tiny ears in the balmy sea breeze.
The sapphire of her smiling eyes. Her
rose-pink lips. Her fine jawline. The
way she tilted her head ever so slightly
to the left.
Im not sure how long we stood there,
facing each other, but Im sure Piper
could see how I was looking at her.
Have you ever stayed at a bed-and-
breakfast? she asked then, smiling in a
very different way than before.
A couple of hours later, we lay
beneath the sheets on a thick mattress on
a creaky brass bed on the wood-plank
second floor of a bed-and-breakfast on
Gurney Street. Our lovemaking had been
gentle, sweet, almost etherealuntil the
passion had overtaken us. Now, in the
afterglow, the pace of the world had
slowed down again. Pipers head was
nestled under my arm as we both lay
still. In the distance, I heard the calm sea
waves roll in to caress the sand. Inside,
the only sounds were the rhythms of our
breathing.
 And all the pressures of my world
melt away, I said. But Piper didnt hear
me. She was asleep. So I kissed the top
of her head and told her I loved her.
Now Im back in my office on a
Friday, reading a brief on my computer.
Tommy walks in and says hes gotten
word that Devlin Walker is going to
have Jennifer Yamuras house gone over
again.
My friend tells me theyre going to
search every nook and cranny of the
place for hair, prints, lintbreath
moleculeseverything. Walker thinks
that whoever was Yamuras source about
the grand-jury investigation was
probably at her house at least once, so
maybe he left a DNA calling card.
 I lean back in my chair and consider
this. Im about to make a suggestion
when Tommy beats me to the punch. I
think we should get into that house first.
Good idea. I call Vaughn into my
office and tell him to draw up a motion
for a scene inspection. I explain that the
ADA is planning to scour the house soon
and that I want to see it once before then.
Should I call Hanson, tell him to be
there with us when we search?
I dont think well need him there. I
hang up with Vaughn and look over at
Tommy. Want to grab lunch?
Nah, cant today, he says, getting
up.
Gotta see a man about a horse? I
smile, but Tommys eyes darken.
 Whats the matter?
Lot on my mind. No big deal.
Going tent camping again?
Maybe. Tommy turns and walks out
of my office.
I watch him go, the visual of Tommy
roughing it under the stars taking me
back to when we were teenagers. By the
time he was in tenth grade, my brother
had his life all mapped out. After
graduation he was going to enlist in the
military, Special Forces. He would
serve our country on the most dangerous
assignments. When he was discharged,
he would go into law enforcement. Big-
city cop, he told me. The front line.
Down and dirty. I had no trouble even
then envisioning my brother as a hard-
ass cop in Philly, New York, Chicago,
even Detroit.
When Tommy was in eighth grade, he
began pumping iron in our basement.
Then he bought a punching bag and
started taking boxing lessons in a gym
downtown. After a year of lifting,
Tommy had gained thirty pounds and
was ripped. The boxing lessons made
him quick with his hands and feet. He
once conned me into going a few rounds
with him out in the backyard. Two
minutes after we started, I was bent
over, sucking wind.
In tenth grade, Tommy joined the
wrestling team. Most of his teammates
had already been wrestling for years,
and Tommy was way behind them on
technique. But he was a quick study, and
it didnt take long for him to catch up.
What impressed his coaches, however,
wasnt the sharpness of Tommys
learning curve but his brute strength.
Tommys teammates called him The
Slab because he was as hard as marble.
Tommy was strong enough that, unlike
his teammates, he didnt starve and
sweat himself to wrestle in a class
below his normal weight. He wrestled at
185, going up against guys who normally
walked around ten to fifteen pounds
heavier. And he beat them.
The summer after tenth grade, Tommy
worked in the lumberyard. It was
grueling, bull work under the hot sun. He
loved it. Every morning, he would leave
our house at six armed with two
thermoses of grape Kool-Aid and a
paper bag carrying his five sandwiches,
chips, and carrots. Hed walk to the bus
stop and catch the bus into town. Twelve
hours later, hed walk back in the door,
filthy with sweat and sawdust, his hair
matted, his shirt torn more often than not.
And hed be in the best moodmore
energized than I was, even though Id
only put in eight hours doing light work
at the local farmers market.
Tommy was set to return to the
lumberyard following eleventh grade.
Then one of his friends at school told
Tommy about his own job with a
sporting outfit that hosted whitewater
rafting tours in Jim Thorpe. Tommy
accompanied his friend to the Poconos
the weekend after school let out and was
instantly hooked. When he got back that
Monday morning, Tommy got our
fathers permission to leave for Jim
Thorpe for the summer.
At the end of the summer, Tommy
came home with a dark tan and dozens of
pictures of him camping, in the raft, and
with various groups. He looked like a
bronze god of the river.
A wave of sadness sweeps across my
chest as I sit in my office, thinking of
Tommy back then. Confident, strong,
tough. My brother was ready to meet the
future on his own terms. Little did he
know the future that was steamrolling
toward him didnt look anything like he
expected.

Our motion to inspect Jennifer Yamuras

house is granted the week after we file
it, and Tommy and I find ourselves
walking from the office toward Addison
Street. Its Thursday, July 26. The
morning rain is gone, and the clouds are
clearing, but the eighty-five-degree air is
heavy with humidity, making it feel more
like a hundred. Tommy carries a camera
in case we want to take pictures. As we
walk west on Addison, we come to the
house near the end of the block. Its a
three-story brick row home. The shutters
are trimmed in green, as is the door. A
piece of yellow crime-scene tape hangs
broken in the doorway.
As Tommy and I reach the front door,
it opens. A uniformed cop exits the
house and descends three worn, white-
marble steps to the street. Behind him,
John Tredesco appears in the doorway.
He isnt wearing his jacket; his sweat
stains show.
What are you doing here? I ask.
The courts order was clear: a
uniformed officer can watch us enter and
leave, but we inspect the house by
ourselves.
Tredesco smiles. You know, its
funny. We all refer to this place as
Yamuras house. But she didnt own it at
all.
 I dont know where Tredesco is going
with this, but it makes me uneasy.
Cut to the chase, John. I dont have
all day.
It wasnt easy to unravel it,
Tredesco answers. The recorder of
deeds lists the owner as HD Holdings,
some corporation out of Delaware. But
that corporation is owned by another
corporation, HDD Holdings, also of
Delaware, which is owned by yet
another corporation, HWD Holdings, in
the Virgin Islands, whichguess what
is owned by yet another company. A
huge conglomerate registered to do
business in Delaware but operating
almost everywhere in the world. You
know, sometimes I wonder whether,
when you get to the bottom of it, the
whole fucking country isnt owned by a
single company.
I pull out my cell phone and click a
picture of Tredesco. Unless you get out
of my way in the next two seconds, Im
going to call the judge and tell him that
youre interfering with a court-ordered
view of the crime scene.
The detective ignores me. When I
contacted the company that owns this
place, they forwarded me to their legal
department. I left messages, but no one
returned my calls. I figure thats because
the companys legal department is
shorthanded, seeing as how its general
counsel is away on leave pending the
results of his upcoming murder trial.
 Fuck. It takes everything I have not to
say it out loud. I turn abruptly and walk
to the end of the street. Im seething as I
dial Davids number.
What the hell? I say as soon as he
answers. You own Yamuras house?
Theres a long pause at the other end,
then David tells me he doesnt own the
house, the company does. Howd you
find out? he asks. And why does it
matter?
Through gritted teeth, I explain my
scene inspection and all the shit that
Tredescos dishing out to me. It
matters, I say, because with HWI
owning the propertyand I assume the
purchase of the house was your doing
the prosecution has a much stronger link
between you and Jennifer than they had
before. It matters because you told me
you only saw her a handful of times, that
it was just a casual thing, when, plainly,
she was more to you than a mere fling. I
now know why David had referred to
his relationship with Jennifer as a deal.
It matters because you werent honest
with me.
Oh, grow up, David snaps. I
didnt give a fuck about her. And I
promise you, Jennifer wasnt the least
bit emotionally involved with me. It was
a business deal. I had the company buy
the house and let Jennifer live there. In
return, she would fuck me whenever I
wanted. And I wasnt the only one she
was seeing, either. Neither of us cared.
 Well, Ill just put it that way to the
jury. Ladies and gentlemen, dont you
believe for one second that my client had
a motive to kill the decedent. There was
no jealousy here, no motive to kill. You
see, my client, my married client, the
guy with a cancer-stricken wife, simply
hired Ms. Yamura to be his concubine.
I hang up on David and return to the
house. You could have called me about
this ahead of time, I tell Tredesco.
Instead of waiting until I was at the
front door.
Tredesco smiles again. Yeah. I
know. He turns to the uniformed officer
and tells him to stay outside while
Tommy and I inspect the house. Dont
let them leave with anything, he adds,
winking at me.
Tommy and I watch Tredesco get in
his unmarked car and drive down the
street. I tell Tommy what David said
about not giving a damn about Jennifer,
that they both saw other people. Tommy
seems to accept this with as much
equanimity as he did the news about
David owning the house. He turns and
leads me up the front steps.
The front door opens into a large
living room. Its expensively outfitted
with crown molding, cherrywood floors,
and built-in bookshelves on either side
of a black-marble fireplace. The walls
are painted a muted gray. A small
chandelier hangs in the center of the
room. Over the fireplace is a pastel
watercolor painting of two swansvery
feminine. The sofa and love seat are of
white fabric and sit around a chrome-
and-glass coffee table. A vase with
wilted flowers sits in the middle of it.
Jennifer Yamura clearly had expensive
tastesgood thing her keeper could
afford to indulge them.
Nice place, says Tommy. Dont
you think?
Yeah, nice, I say. Lets see the
back.
Tommy leads me through the living
room to the kitchen, the only other room
on the first floor other than the powder
room. The kitchen cabinetry is all white,
with light-gray marble countertops and
brushed chrome hardware. The doors of
the upper cabinets are faced with glass
to reveal the crystal stemware and china
inside. Lights mounted under the
cabinets shine down on the counters. The
ceiling is fitted with recessed lighting.
The refrigerator is a Sub-Zero. The
dishwasher is a Bosch. The oven is a
six-burner gas Viking. All spanking new.
Tommy and I retrace our steps, enter
the short hallway that encloses the door
to the powder room and, across from it,
the doorway to the basement stairs. A
curtain of brightly colored glass beads
covers the cellar doorway. Her hippie
side, Tommy says. He pushes aside the
beads, and we both look down the steps.
There are twelvewooden, uncarpeted,
old, and splintered. Obviously not part
of the remodel. The bottom step rests on
a concrete block about four inches high.
The last four or five steps are stained
with blood, and a large brown stain
discolors the concrete block and the
floor near it where Yamuras blood
drained and pooled.
Tommy descends the steps, and I
follow him. The basement is small, and
the walls are cheaply paneled over
rough cement. There is no finished
ceiling, so I can see the wooden beams,
ductwork, and wiring. Tommy walks
over to a large plastic basin, turns the
water on and off. I nod to the floor
behind him.
This must be where she crawled,
tried to get away from her killer, I say.
Tommy looks at me, nods, but says
nothing. We dawdle for a few more
minutes, looking around, then walk back
upstairs.
Ill check out back, I say. I walk
through the kitchen and open the back
door, step down onto the cement parking
area behind the house. Its just big
enough for one car; theres barely room
beside it to get out and walk to the back
door. The back wall of the house is
stucco, smooth, and freshly painted in a
French yellow. The glass-paned back
door has a fresh coat of white paint as
well.
Waverly Street, the alley that runs
behind the houses on Addison, is just
wide enough for a single car. Across
Waverly, the houses on Pine Street come
right up to the sidewalk, leaving no room
for parking. Directly across from
Jennifer Yamuras place theres a
courtyard between the back extensions
of two large homes. Empty but for trash
cans, its protected by an eight-foot,
iron-barred security gate with a No
Trespassing sign.
I stand in the alley and look up at the
windows on the second and third floors
of Jennifer Yamuras house. After a
minute, Tommy appears in the second-
floor window just above the kitchen. He
looks down at me and I up at him. We
hold each others gaze for a long
moment, and I see something undefinable
in Tommys eyes. He nods at me and
turns away.
I cross the yard, walk up the back
steps, and enter the kitchen. I meet
Tommy in the living room.
David spent a lot of money buying
this house for her, fixing it up, I say.
Maybe he cared for her more than he let
on.
Or maybe he didnt buy the house for
the girl, Tommy says. Maybe he
bought the girl for the house.

The following Wednesday, Im sitting in

my office at eight in the morning. David
is coming in at ten to discuss his case.
Id called him again following the house
inspection. Neither one of us was in a
better mood during the second call that
day than we had been during the first. I
expect our meeting today to be stormy.
Then Vaughn rushes in with news that
makes me think the meeting will go even
worse than I expect.
Did you read the Daily News this
morning? He hands me the tabloid.
I gape at the headline above the front-
page color photo of Jennifer Yamuras
house. It reads: Addison Street Geisha
House?
My God. Someone from the police
or DAs office has leaked to the
newspaper the fact that David, through
Hanson World Industries, owns the
house in which Jennifer had been living.
The theme of the article was that David
had been keeping Jennifer in the house
as his mistress, like an old-fashioned
geisha girl.
This is so wrong, Vaughn says as I
read. The fact that Jennifers ancestry
was Japanese? That geisha thing? Its
racist.
I sigh and look up at Vaughn. More
to the point is the fact that it makes
David look like hes also a racist. And
an elitist.
And a pig, adds Susan, walking
into my office, her own copy of the
Daily News under her arm.
Why didnt he tell us this? Vaughn
asks.
Maybe for the same reason he wont
tell us where he really was when
Yamura was murdered, says Susan.
You think hes guilty? Vaughn asks.
I think he has a lot to answer for,
she says. Like why hes out chasing
other women while the mother of his two
children is fighting cancer.
Susan and Vaughn leave me to read
the article, which details the juicy family
scandal from which David Hanson
sprang. When Edwin was eighteen, their
father divorced Edwins mother to marry
his secretary, who was then pregnant
with David. It was a bitter and public
divorce and caused Edwin to hate both
his father and his younger half brother.
The phone on my desk buzzes behind
me. Its Angie, telling me that David has
arrived. I ask her to have Susan and
Vaughn meet me in the conference room,
and I walk down the hall to meet David
in our foyer. We shake hands
perfunctorily, and I lead David into the
conference room, where we both sit
down.
As livid as I am with David, I
promise myself not to lose my cool.
David is, after all, a client. And for
things to work out, it is imperative that
he remain so. The last thing I want is for
David to fire me in a fit of anger because
I cant hold my tongue.
I take a deep breath, then begin.
David, the reason Ive asked you to
come and meet with us today
David cuts me off midsentence. He,
apparently, has not resolved to keep his
cool with me. I know why Im here,
Mick. Okay? Youre pissed about the
house thing. I should have told you about
it. I fucked up. I get it.
Its Susans turn to interrupt. Did you
see the story in the Daily News this
morning?
David whips his head toward Susan.
Yeah, I did. And so did my brother,
who spent forty-five minutes reaming me
out over the phone as I drove here this
morning. Hes already taken away my
job. Had my security card revoked so I
cant even get into the fucking building.
Now hes demanding that I give him my
proxy to vote my shares so I wont have
any voice whatsoever in how the
company is run. Whats he going to ask
for next? My balls on a silver platter?
I pause a moment to let David see that
Im hearing him. Im about to say
something to calm him down, but Susan
just cant hold back. Whats with the
kimonos? she demands. One of the
things mentioned in the news article was
that the police found seven silk Japanese
kimonos in Jennifer Yamuras closet, a
fact the reporter used to play up the
geisha angle.
Jesus fuck, David says. It was a
joke between the two of us. I came in
one time and Jennifer was dressed in a
kimono, and she pretended, pretended,
like she was a geisha and I was her lord,
or something. It was role-playing. Thats
all. After that, whenever I went to Japan
on a business trip, I would come back
with a kimono and give it to her. But she
never wore them. That one time was the
only time. David shakes his head,
plainly both exasperated and exhausted.
All right, I say before Susan has a
chance to attack again. I know youre
under a great deal of stress right now, I
begin. I pour a cup of coffee for David
and then one for myself from the silver
coffee service that Angie has set up on
the conference table. Vaughn grabs a
couple of croissants. Susan broods. Its
not our intent to add to it. We just want
to make sure there will be no more
surprises. We can deal with things, if we
know about them. Put our own spin on
the facts. But if the first time your legal
team finds out about something thats
potentially damaging is when we read it
in the newspapers or see it on TV, then
its too late.
David looks at me. All right. I get
it.
Is there anything else? I ask.
Anything that might look bad if it comes
out?
David looks up at the ceiling and
inhales. Hes thinking. It looks like hes
about to shrug his shoulders when
Vaughn says, The kimonos. David
looks over at Vaughn, who continues.
You said there were seven of them. The
first one, the one Jennifer already had
and wore as a joke. And the other six
you purchased when you went to
Japan?
Yes?
How often did you go to Japan?
This is Susan, who has apparently
figured out where Vaughn is going.
A light goes off in Davids eyes, and
he stiffens. I can see that he, too, gets it.
I go to Asia, including Japan, about
twice a year. He directs his next
comment to me. Id actually been
seeing Jennifer for almost three years.
Not just a handful of times, like I told
you.
And the house? I asked. When did
you buy it?
I already owned it by then. Id
bought it for . . . someone else. Then she
relocated and the house was sitting
empty. After a while, I started seeing
Jennifer, and eventually, I told her she
could move in.
So Tommy was right when he
speculated that David hadnt purchased
the house for Jennifer, but the other way
around. I look from Susan to David, who
stares down at the table.
So, says Susan, playing devils
advocate here, when your case goes to
trial, the prosecutor will be able to say
that you purchased the house to keep one
woman, and then after you broke up, you
went out and acquired another woman to
keep in the same house. Even before
your wife got sick and things became
stressful between the two of you.
 David says nothing, still averting his
eyes.
I take a deep breath, forge ahead.
Your alibi for when Jennifer Yamura
was killed. Is there anything you want to
add to what you already told us?
Anything different? clarifies Susan.
David ignores Susan and looks
directly at me. I didnt go to the house
the day Jennifer was killed. I only went
there that night.
Where Vaughn gets the one word
out before David stands abruptly.
Were done here, he says, then turns
to leave.
Sooner or later, youre going to want
to tell us where you really were, what
you were doing, Susan says to Davids
back.
David turns. Am I, Susan? Am I
going to want to tell you? Are you really
going to want to know where I was and
what I was doing? This last remark he
directs at me. Then hes gone.
Vaughn is the first to speak. Did he
just tell us he did it? Did he just say that
we really dont want to know where he
was when Jennifer was murdered
because the answer is he was right there,
tossing her down the stairs?
Thats not what I heard, I say. And
its not what you heard, either. Got it? I
turn to Susan. You seem to have quite a
hard-on for the man.
Susan gets her back up, starts to say
something, but cuts herself off.
 Look, I say, I dont much like
David right now, either. But I dont want
to lose him as a client. We cant afford
to lose him.
Susan looks away for a long minute,
then turns to face me again. I dont get
it. David went to law school with you at
Penn, an Ivy League school. And wasnt
he on the Law Review? He has to be a
smart guy. A lot smarter than hes
looking right now.
David is smart, but maybe not in the
sense Susan means. And David did get
himself on the Law Review. But it wasnt
due to his grades. Instead, he had to
write his way on. No easy task even for
the best legal writers and research
wonksfor David it would have been
impossible, because of his lack of
patience. David never could have
planted himself in the law library long
enough to lose himself in the research
necessary to author a paper of sufficient
depth to win a spot on the Law Review.
But David had a secret weapon, a
carefully cultivated asset that none of his
competitors possessed. He had our
roommate, Kevin Kratz, the smartest guy
in our class. During our first year of law
school, David invited Kevin to every
ball game and concert and party he went
to. David made sure that Kevin was
never left standing alone in the middle of
a crowd, that his beer mug was always
full. And David was the one who
persuaded Allen Davis and me to let
Kevin live with us in the apartment we
rented during our second year . . . when
David would have to write his paper to
win a place with that publication.
I read the paper David submitted
under his name to the editorial staff. It
was, in a word, brilliant. Exhaustively
researched, tightly reasoned. Almost
literary. The work would have been a
source of pride to any Supreme Court
justices law clerk. I had little doubt at
the time that Kevin was proud of it, and I
was certain David praised and thanked
Kevin to no end for it.
And yet, at the timeand this may be
a sad commentary on my own ability to
judge peopleI did not question at all
the sincerity of Davids friendship with
Kevin Kratz. Even when, at the end of
our second year, David persuaded Kevin
to lobby for him to become editor-in-
chief, when Kevin clearly, and by leaps
and bounds, was the better man for the
position.
I shrug. Hes definitely a smart man.
Very smart.
 9
FRIDAY, AUGUST 10

Its Friday morning and Im staring at the

face of Stanley Lipinski. Of the three
corrupt cops identified by the press in
connection with the grand-jury
investigation, Lipinski is the one whod
planted himself at the local cop bar,
essentially taunting the cops hed
snitched on to come for him. The story of
Lipinskis murder is playing out on the
seven oclock news on the small TV in
our kitchen. My daughter and I are sitting
on stools at the island in the middle of
the kitchen, Gabby eating her Trix while
I wait for Piper to finish frying the
vegetable omelet well share.
I know a lot of good cops. I could
name fifty Id be shocked to hear
accused of corruption. Stanley Lipinski
is not one of them. Lipinski viewed
himself as the police-department version
of a hockey teams enforcer. Some
cops get rough with suspects because
they truly believe in the good-guys-bad-
guys dichotomy and think the bad guys
get what they deserve. But that wasnt
Stanley Lipinski. Stanley inflicted pain
because he enjoyed it. Everyonecops,
perps, even prosecutors and defense
attorneysgave Stanley a wide berth.
But the bad guys, the real bad guys,
will only put up with so much, so I
wasnt surprised when the Thirteenth
Districts enforcer ended up dead. He
had, after all, not only testified against
his cohorts before the grand jury but also
all but dared them to come and get him.
Apparently, they did. Lipinski had gone
down hard in a rapid-fire spray of
bullets on the sidewalk just outside
McCravens Tavern in North Philly.
According to eyewitnesses, so many
bullets had torn through his torso that
Stanley was effectively disemboweled,
his guts spilling onto the pavement while
he remained upright, shouting, Fuck
you!
 When the story finishes, Piper turns
from the TV to me, and I see that all the
color has drained from her face.
Theyre going after everyone who
helped Jennifer Yamura with that story,
arent they? Before I can answer, she
asks, Have you heard from Tommy?
Not for a few days, I say.
Can you give him a call? Make sure
hes all right.
Why wouldnt Tommy be all right?
Piper turns back to the omelet, which
is now overdone.
I stare at her back for a moment,
wondering whether Tommy and Piper
are keeping things from me. After Piper
recovered from the shock of her visit to
Tommy in prison, the two of them
became close. Piper began writing to
him. At first he didnt reply, but Piper
persisted, and Tommy eventually sent
her a one-paragraph missive thanking
her for her letters. He wrote that it made
him feel good to know that someone on
the outside was thinking about him. The
next week, the floodgates opened. I went
to the mailbox to find another letter from
Tommy. The envelope was thick, and
Piper told me it was ten pages long. She
wouldnt tell me what Tommy had
written, and I didnt press; I was
overjoyed that Tommy and Piper were
developing a relationship. I wanted him
to become part of our family once he got
out of prison, and Piper was laying the
groundwork for that to happen, despite
the poison her father had been feeding
her about my brother. The day he was
finally released, Piper came with me to
pick him up at the prison.
The following week, I introduced
Tommy to my now-retired partner and
founder of my law firm, Lou Mastardi,
who agreed to hire Tommy as our firms
investigator. Tommy lived with us for the
next six weeksGabby was two at the
timewhile he reintroduced himself to
freedom. The adjustment was not an easy
one. He seemed to be on edge all the
time, always looking over his shoulder.
He would wake up in the middle of the
night and walk outside to our patio.
More than once I woke to find Piper
gone from our bed, and spied her through
the window sitting next to Tommy,
talking quietly. It warmed my heart to
see Piper helping my brother make his
return to society. I believed that she
played a critical role, both then and
throughout the ensuing years, in bringing
back the brother Id last seen before our
fathers illness and death.
Sometimes, though, and I hate to
admit this, I felt a pang of jealousy.
Tommy bared his soul to Piper. I got that,
to a point. Piper is a nurturer and I
Lord knowsam not. But I am Tommys
brother, and I would have thought that,
even if he couldnt bring himself to open
himself up fully to me, he could have
shared more than he did. What came to
irk me even more was my suspicion that
Piper herself shared things with Tommy
that she didnt tell me, her husband. Call
me a dinosaur, but I think I should be her
main sounding board and soul mate. I
pressed Piper about this a few times, but
she always shrugged it off or threw it
back at me, complaining that I spent my
weekends on the golf course rather than
out in our garden, like Tommy often did.
Needless to say, this type of response
did not reassure me. But I did my best to
push down my angst, securing it in one
of my many mental lockboxes.
Are you going to call Tommy or
not? Piper says, her back to me as she
scrapes the omelet out of the frying pan.
Ill call him from the car, I answer.
Im sure hes fine.
 Half an hour later, on the way to the
office, I do call Tommys cell phone. I
get the usual message, and I leave my
own, asking him to call me back.
Angie is on the phone when I arrive at
the firm. She flags me down and tells the
person on the other end to hold on
because Id just arrived. Its Patti
Cassidy, Angie says. She wants to
know if you have a comment on that
dead cop. I nod and tell Angie to put
the reporter through to my office.
Patti, how are you? I begin, using
my sweetest voice.
Sorry, Mick, but if we could just cut
to the chase, I have to get my part of the
article together ASAP for the website.
Or someone elses name is going on it.
 Okay, heres my quote: Officer
Lipinskis murder only underscores that
some very bad actors are as unhappy
with the people involved in the grand-
jury investigation as they were with
Jennifer Yamura for reporting it.
Theres a pause at the other end of the
line. Is that going to be your defense in
the Hanson case? That Jennifer Yamura
was murdered by people connected with
the police drug ring? Are you going on
record with that?
Not a chance, I say. Youand
everyone elsewill learn at trial why
David Hanson couldnt have murdered
Yamura.
I click off and speed-dial Tommy.
Again, I get his voice mail. I hang up
without leaving a message.
Stressed, I decide to go for a run. My
ten-mile routine run along the Schuylkill
River usually relaxes me. But today its
no help. I just cant clear my mind of the
widening rift between Piper and me, and
the canyon separating me from my
brother.
Halfway through my run, I cross the
Falls Bridge to head back to town on
West River Drive. The minute I turn the
corner, I see the darkness enveloping the
sky to the east. The clouds already cover
Center City and are heading my way.
Before I get a mile down the drive, I can
hear it coming. A wall of rain pounds the
ground a hundred yards from me. Then
fifty, then the rain is upon me. Instantly,
Im soaked. Its so thick I can barely
make out the headlights of the cars
approaching to my right.
When I arrive at the lobby of my
building, the guard at the front desk, with
whom Ive exchanged greetings a
hundred times, casts me a suspicious
look, wondering who this street person
is trespassing in his gleaming marble-
and-chrome environment. I show him my
access card. Its soaked, so it doesnt
scan, and he has to key in the elevator
for me.
In the mens room, I use paper towels
in a futile effort to dry off. Eventually, I
give up and return to my office.
I try again to reach Tommy and curse
when I hear his voice mail. I call home.
Piper tells me that she still hasnt heard
from Tommy, either. I tell Piper Im
going to drive up to his trailer in Jim
Thorpe. She says to be careful. I think
about that. Tommy is definitely sharing
things with Piper that he hasnt with me.
An hour later, Im driving down a
rough path called Lizard Creek Road. I
turn into Tommys campground and pass
some big-ass RVs that cost more than
most peoples homes, and continue until
I find the turnoff for Tommys campsite. I
see the weathered picnic table sitting
next to his trailer, covered with a canvas
tarp. As I pull up, a man sits down at the
table, gnawing on a corncob. But that
man is not Tommy. Neither Tommy nor
his pickup is anywhere to be seen.
 I step out of the car. The air is sweet
with the smell of freshly barbequed
chicken. The man sitting at the picnic
table puts down the cob, wipes his hands
on a paper towel, and stands. He walks
toward me as I park my car and get out.
Hello, Mick, he says, extending his
hand.
Hey, Lawrence, I say, extending my
own hand. Long time no see.
Lieutenant Lawrence Washington
smiles. Long time nobody see.
Lawrence is a tall, proud-shouldered
African American. His hair, now almost
fully gray, is cut short. He is neither
light-skinned nor dark-skinned. His
reserved and mannerly demeanor has
always shone in sharp contrast to his
chosen line of work. Lets just say I have
never heard someone address Lawrence
as Larry.
Wheres Tommy?
Lawrence takes a seat, rests his arms
on the table, and folds his hands. Oh,
hes around. Had to go down to the
store, get some supplies.
In the middle of dinner?
Lawrence smiles again but doesnt
answer. Tommy knew I was coming.
Piper must have gotten through to him on
his phone. Maybe shed been in contact
with him this whole time. Maybe she just
wanted me to come up here to see him.
Or, as it turns out, not see him until after
Lawrence and I have had a little sit-
down. Maybe Im being paranoid, but
Im starting to feel that this whole thing
has been orchestrated.
So what is it were supposed to talk
about? I ask Lawrence.
Youre a sharp one, Mick. You
always were.
Im running out of patience. Come
on, man. What are you doing here? Or, if
you want, we can talk about Stanley
Lipinski.
Stanley Lipinski is what Im doing
here. I do not want to end up like him,
which I surely would if Id have stuck
around.
Theres witness protection, I say.
Like Terrance Johnson.
Lawrence smirks. Provided by the
police. Police protecting you from the
police. Not a good formula, by my math.
I dont hold out much hope for young
Terrance.
I nod, take a seat, and look at the big
paper plate of barbequed chicken on the
table. Lawrence tells me to help myself.
He picks up his corn on the cob, and we
eat together in silence until hes finished.
It was because of Cecilia, he says
suddenly.
Your wife, I say. I heard. Im
sorry. Cecilia Washington had been
Lawrences high school sweetheart.
Each was a refugee from a fractured
household. Coming from a war-zone
neighborhood, Lawrence and Cecilia
had recognized in each other the same I
am better than this spark of self-
determination and pride. They married
the month Lawrence graduated from the
police academy, raised three daughters,
sent them all to college, and saw them
all married. This was common
knowledge on the force and in the DAs
office, at least among those of us who
worked cases with Lawrence. Also
common knowledge was that Cecilia had
developed a neurological condition that
slowly robbed her of her health, then her
mobility, then her life. It was an awful
way for someone to die. And awfully
expensive as well.
I took her to every doctor I could
find, Lawrence says. Every specialist,
and everyone who claimed to be a
specialist. We tried all the known
therapies and drugs. Tried the
experimental ones. I even flew Cecilia
down to Mexico. Twice. About halfway
through it all, I just plain ran out of
money. Our savings were gone.
Retirement account empty. Every cent of
equity in the house used up. I had to find
the money to go on. It was that simple.
Guys I worked with knew all about it.
One day, one of them came up to me.
Said he knew of a way to help me out.
Now, I knew that guy, and I knew that
whatever he was serving up was gonna
be rotten. But I didnt even blink. I
looked him right in the eye and said,
Where do I sign?
When Lawrence pauses, I get up and
walk a few steps to a plastic Igloo
cooler, pull out two bottles of beer, and
bring them back to the table. Lawrence
and I take turns throwing them back in
the hot night air. The sun has set, and
were surrounded by the constant sounds
of the crickets and cicadas. Every now
and then, a twig snaps nearby, a
groundhog or maybe a fox making its
presence known. When Lawrence and I
finish our beers, I retrieve two more.
So, I say, handing Lawrence his
bottle, about Tommy.
Lawrence unscrews the cap, takes a
long swallow, then looks at me hard.
Dont judge him, Mick. Hes had a
tough road.
I know all about Tommys problems,
and I dont judge him.
 Something flickers in Lawrences
eyes. My brother clearly has problems I
dont know about, and hes going to tell
me about them, at least some of them,
right now.
Before he has a chance to start, I jump
in. Im still wondering what brings you
here specifically. How do you and
Tommy know each other?
Lawrence smiles. Got a nephew
Kyle. Shit for brains. High school
dropout. A rap sheet longer than your leg
before he was sixteen. A mouth that got
him into trouble every time he opened it.
At nineteen, the fool got sent up for hard
time for aggravated assault and robbery.
One day in the big house, he says the
wrong thing to the wrong guys. Next
thing you know, everyones playing
kickball, and Kyles the ball. In the
middle of the game, a white guy walks
by. Big guy. Thick as a redwood tree.
Doesnt like the whole five-on-one thing
and decides to break it up. Few minutes
later, lots of guys lying on the floor,
broken noses, cracked ribs, busted jaws.
Redwoods caused some damage. But
hes on the floor, too. There were five of
them, after all.
Lawrence takes a long draw on his
beer, then continues. Fast-forward
about three years. Shit-for-brains Kyles
on the street, one of his many short
vacations from the state correctional
system. My sister Catherine has
prevailed upon me to take the boy under
my wing, spend some time with him. So
one night, I take my nephew to
McCravens in North Philly. Cop bar,
you know the place.
I nod, thinking of the late Stanley
Lipinski dying outside the same taverns
front door.
Were there for a while when Kyle
gets all excited, says, Thats him! It
was the guy who saved his ass inside.
Tommy. I recall the one time I
visited my brother in the prison
infirmary. Now I know what put him
there.
Lawrence nods. So Kyle and I go
over to your brother. I thank him. Buy
him a beer, and we get to talking. One
thing leads to another, and before you
know it, were friends.
Lawrence and I sit in silence, until he
says, I owed him.
Meaning what? You brought Tommy
in on it? On the drug thing? You owed
him so you thought youd help him make
some easy cash?
Its more complicated than that.
Lawrence throws me a sharp look, stares
until I look away. Youve heard of
Jimmy Nutso.
Its a statement, not a question. James
Nutso Nunzio is a powerful underboss
in the Delaguardia crime family, whose
turf includes all of South Jersey and
Philadelphia. Every defense attorney in
townand every Philly resident who
can read a newspaperknows about
Jimmy Nutso.
I nod.
One of Jimmys guys who makes
book is a gentleman by the name of Tony
Oliviella, who works out of a storefront
right over on . . . well, lets just say hes
not too far away from the Melrose Diner.
Now Tonys own menu features the
regular fare: ponies, boxing, college
football, all the pro sports.
I can see where this is going. Tommy
gambled more than he should have, got
himself in deep hock to the mob. He
needed cash to pay his tab. I say as much
to Lawrence, who confirms it.
So one day, Jimmy Nutso himself
placed a call to Tommy. No threats, of
courseyou never know when a line is
being tapped. He just said, Hi, Tommy.
How you doin? Maybe we can meet
sometime. Or maybe theres no need for
that. Its up to you. The message was
loud and clear.
Jesus, I exhale.
Now, Tommy always has his ear to
the ground. He hears things he probably
shouldnt. One of the things your brother
found out about was our little escapade
out of the Thirteenth. Tommy came to me
one day and asked to be let in. I said no.
He said I owed him, and I said I know I
do, and thats why Im not letting you
anywhere near this. Then he explained
why he needed the money. I cursed him
up and down, just like my shit-for-brains
nephew. But, of course, I knew then that
I had no choice but to bring him on
board, because hed be doing the
Schuylkill River face-float otherwise.
I think for a minute. Has Tommy
been inculpated, before the grand jury?
No, sir. And theres no way he can
be. I was Tommys only contact. My
people knew Id brought someone in to
help transport the goods, but they didnt
know who it was.
I lean back, exhale a breath I didnt
realize Id been holding. At the same
time, I hear tires crunching over gravel
behind me. I turn and see headlights
approaching us from a little way down
the road.
Lawrence stands. Ill let you two
alone so Tommy can finish the story
himself.
Theres more?
Lawrence smiles. Sadly, it seems to
me. Theres always more.
With that he takes his paper plate and
paper towels, empties and deposits them
into a big plastic trash can near the end
of the trailer. Then he walks up the two
wooden steps leading to the door of the
trailer and disappears inside.
Tommy stops his pickup behind my
car, gets out, and walks up the gravel
driveway. He walks past me without
saying anything and goes into the trailer.
Hes inside with Lawrence for a good
ten minutes. Then Tommy comes back
outside, walks to the cooler. He pulls out
two Miller Genuine Drafts and hands
one to me.
So, Tommy says.
So. I look across the table at him.
Im feeling hurt and angry. Hed gotten
himself into trouble. Again. I understand
that. I can see how that would happen
with Tommy. I dont like it, but I get it.
But instead of turning to me to help bail
him out, my brother sought out
Lawrence, a dirty cop he met one night
in a bar. As I mull this over, Lawrences
words come back to me: Dont judge
him. Tommy pulls an opened pack of
cigarettes from the pocket of his dark-
blue T-shirt. He taps one out, puts it to
his lips, and lights it with a Zippo. He
inhales deeply and coughs. We look hard
at each other.
 So, I repeat.
Jennifer Yamura, Tommy says.
Here comes the rest of the story.
You were fucking her.
For a while, sometime back. Met her
at ODwyers, he says. Another cop
bar. Girl was a hard drinker. Whiskey,
straight up. We had some laughs. She
invited me back to her place.
To the house on Addison Street.
Now I know why Tommy suggested we
get in for a scene inspection before the
forensic guys came back. Somewhere in
the house, there would be evidence of
Tommys presence. Hair, prints,
something. Now I also understand why
Tommy showed such animus toward
David.
 Tommy smiles. She showed me her
kimonos.
And a whole lot more.
Tommy smiles again. At least his
mouth is smiling. His eyes look tired and
beaten down. I can see that he isnt
getting a lot of sleep. Its all my fault,
he says. The whole mess.
I ask him what hes talking about.
Tommy sighs. That girl could
screw, he says. But it was more than
that. I thought so anyway. We talked.
About everything. Her rich brother. Her
parents. The shitheads she worked with.
My fucked-up life. Her wacky
relationship with your friend David, that
piece of shit. Tommy pauses, lights
another cigarette, takes a couple of deep
drags. She had a way of pulling you in,
making you feel like she was really into
you. Like you could trust her. So I did.
Bad move. Bad fucking move. I told her
about my troubles with the mob. And
how I was working to get free of them.
You told her about the drug ring.
Tommy closes his eyes and nods.
And the grand jury. Devlin had a full
head of steam by then. Lawrence had
already testified.
Youre the source that Devlin
Walkers been after. The source of
Jennifers story.
Yes. And no. I didnt know a lot of
what she wrote about in her story. Like
who else besides Lawrence had testified
before the grand jury.
 I think about what Tommy has just
told me. So you were the springboard.
Once Jennifer knew from you that there
was a story, she went out and got her
hands on someone else. Someone who
knew a lot more than you did about the
details of the investigation.
Way I figure it.
Still, if Walker finds out about you,
hell crucify you.
Tommys eyes flatten. He wouldnt
be the only one.
The bad guys, I say, thinking of
Lipinski being disemboweled by gunfire.
The bad guys, Tommy repeats.
Tommy and I sit at the table for a long
time, neither of us saying anything. Until
Tommy looks at me and asks, So, Mick,
whats your take on all of this? How
does it all fit together?
I spread my hands. I dont know
yet, I say. Theres still so much we
dont know. Like who the second source
was. Who mowed down Lipinski? Why
did Devlin Walker act so fast to nail
David for murder one? Whys Devlin so
hot to get David to plead?
And, of course, says Tommy, who
pushed Jennifer Yamura down the
stairs.
Of course, I say as somethingIm
not sure whatflashes across Tommys
eyes.
We sit there, looking at each other in
silence. Then, abruptly, Tommy stands
and walks into the trailer.
 10
SATURDAY, AUGUST 11

I bolt upright in bed. My chest is

pounding. Im hyperventilating. Piper
sits up next to me, grabs hold of my arm.
Mick. Mick. Are you all right?
I take a couple of deep breaths, tell
Piper Im okay. Just a bad dream, I
say.
Piper lies back down as I get off the
bed, grab my robe. The blue neon
numbers read 4:15. Its Saturday
morning. Ive only been asleep a couple
of hours. By the time I got back from
Tommys trailer in Jim Thorpe, it was
well after midnight. My head was
spinning when I went to bed, and it
seemed like I lay there forever before
sleep reached up and pulled me down.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, I use our
Keurig to make myself a cup of coffee. I
take the mug onto the back patio and sit
down at the table. My hand shakes as I
lift the mug to my lips.
What a mess.
What a fucking mess. I say it out
loud this time. The murder, the crime
ring, the grand-jury investigation.
Tommy and Jennifer Yamura. David
Hanson. All of them mixed up in it now.
And Piper moving away from me, maybe
soon lost to me forever.
I have to find a way to make this turn
out well for all of us. A lone tear slides
down the right side of my face. My
mouth starts to quiver. But I stop it. I
stop it cold.
No, I say. No more.
And deep inside my head, I hear the
iron gears turning, tightening the hard-
closed doors of my minds many
compartments. I finish my coffee and
make my way to the basement, pull some
running shorts and a shirt from the dryer.
Its not even 6:30 when I return, but
Piper is already up and making
breakfast. The table is set for just the
two of us, which means Gabby is still in
bed. Shes set out a large glass of orange
juice for each of us. The bacon has
already been cooked and is nestled in
paper towels to absorb the grease. Shes
working on the eggs.
How was your run? she asks.
Good. Youre up and at em this
morning.
Piper uses a spatula to scramble the
eggs. How was Tommy?
I nod my head. Hes fine. Theyre
both fine, I add. That Piper doesnt ask
me who Im talking about tells me that
she knows all about Lawrence
Washington. A bubble of anger rises
inside me, but I push it down.
Piper stares at me for a long minute.
Is Tommy in trouble? Are they going to
find out about him? The district
attorney? The bad cops?
I dont know, I say. They havent
found out about him so far.
But they just searched that reporters
house again.
Jesus. She knows not only about
Tommys involvement in the drug ring,
but about his affair with Jennifer Yamura
as well. The anger rises again, and this
time I dont try to stop it. What the hell,
Piper? Im just finding out all this shit
about Tommy, and youve known all
along?
She shrugs, maddeningly calm.
Youre not his counselor.
Im his brother! And Im your
husband! He should confide in me. And
so should you. How can I help if I dont
know whats going on?
Piper laughs. She actually laughs.
How can you help?
Now Im really stewing. I dont
deserve this. But I hold my peace while
Piper finishes cooking the eggs and puts
them and the bacon onto my plate, lays it
on the table without looking at me. Then
she turns away and begins eating at the
counter.
Still with her back to me, she says, I
got a second estimate on the roof. Its
five thousand less than the first one.
The roof? I thought this had been
settled. It could be ten thousand less,
but we still cant afford it right now.
Piper whips around. We cant afford
to have our roof blow off, either. The
whole house will be destroyed.
Theres nothing wrong with our roof.
Its only eight years old.
The last windstorm tore off half the
Shabses shingles. And their roof was no
older than ours.
The Shabs? Who are they?
You dont pay attention to anything.
If it werent for me, you wouldnt know
a single one of our neighbors! With that,
she grabs her plate and juice and leaves
the kitchen.

As far as I can tell, and Ive thought

about this a million times, the crack in
my marriage first opened five years ago,
when I left the DAs office. Piper and I
had first met during the infamous
neurologist murder case and the flush of
victory that came with the conviction. In
quick succession, I won guilty verdicts
in two other high-profile murder cases
and was becoming one of the citys
better-known crime fighters. The DA
himself invited me to his home in
Chestnut Hill for dinner. The mayor
requested that I stand next to him on a
dais and offer some remarks at a turn-in-
your-handguns rally in North
Philadelphia.
Those were intoxicating days, for
Piper and me both. And for someone
else: Pipers father, who was watching
my ascent closely. Several times,
Thatcher Gray referred to me in
company as our future district
attorney. I laughed it off at the time. But
it quickly became clear to me that my
father-in-law wasnt joking. He fully
expected me one day to become
Philadelphias DA. I tried to explain to
him that I was one of a hundred, a small
cog in a big machine. That there were
many fantastic and committed
prosecutors in the district attorneys
office, and that, in any event, I had no
political aspirations and even less
political skill. Thatcher downplayed my
protests, waving his hand as if shooing
away so many pesky flies.
Dont you worry about political
skill, he said. Thats why campaigns
hire consultants. And dont worry about
the money to pay for them, he added. I
have powerful friends with deep
pockets.
My father-in-laws encouragement
had the opposite effect on me, cementing
a decision I was already leaning toward
hanging up my prosecutors spurs and
going into private practice.
Before I made the leap, though, I
tested the waters with Piper. I asked her
to sit with me at our kitchen table and
ran it by her.
You mean you want to start
representing the criminals? she asked
me.
Theyre not all criminals, I
answered. Innocent people are charged,
too. It was a weak argument, and I
knew it. But I let the words hang in the
air for a minute, then said, The money
will be a lot better. We could move to a
bigger house, on the Main Line, near
your parents. Your mother could help
you with Gabby, I added. Our daughter
was a year old and giving Piper, by then
a stay-at-home mom, a real run for her
money.
Piper sat for a long minute, staring at
the floor. Then she looked up at me and
asked, Is this about Tommy?
The month before, toward the end of
my time off with Piper and the new baby,
I had received a call from the prison that
Tommy had been beaten up pretty badly.
I drove up to the prison in Frackville to
see him. Lying in the infirmary, Tommy
could barely talk because his jaw was
wired. His nose was broken. His left eye
was swollen shut. Both of his hands
were wrapped in bandages. When he
saw me looking at his injured hands, he
said between his teeth, Thats from
what I did to the other guys.
I returned home shaken, more scared
for my brother than Id ever been.
Thats part of it, I answered. The
other part is . . . well . . .
My father. How hes pressuring you
about becoming district attorney.
I nodded.
Piper looked past me, out the kitchen
windows. Then she put her hand over
mine, looked me in the eyes, and said,
You do what you think is right. And
she meant it. Of that Im certain, even
looking back on it now. Of course, at that
point, neither Piper nor I had been
subjected to her fathers wrath.
I broke the news to Thatcher that I
was leaving the district attorneys office
for a private criminal-defense practice
just after I gave my notice. The four of us
were having dinner one night at the
Capital Grille on Broad Street. We were
halfway through our first course when I
announced my plans.
Thatcher dropped his spoon into his
lobster bisque and turned his head
toward me so deliberately that it looked
like he was moving in slow motion.
After a long minute, he looked to Piper
and asked through his clenched jaw,
How could you let him do this?
It was all Piper could do to maintain
her composure. She always obeyed her
father. I dont think Id ever seen them
exchange a cross word. I could feel her
own anger rising inside her. She held her
tongue at dinner, but railed to me about
her father once we got home. Soon
enough, though, she focused her anger on
me instead.
I think about all this on Saturday night
as I drive Piper and Gabby to the Grays
house for dinner. The trip from Wayne to
Villanova takes only about ten minutes,
but the tension between Piper and me
makes the drive seem interminable.
 I turn the car into a wide cobblestone
driveway. The precisely manicured lawn
spreads out on either side like twin
emerald oceans. Annuals are arrayed in
perfectly ordered rows, Prussian
soldiers on a parade ground. The Grays
house is an imposing stone Normandy
with crimson shutters and a dark slate
roof. Its positioned squarely in the
middle of their two-acre property. It was
hard for me to believe that someone as
joyful as Piper was when I first met her
could have been raised in such a
forbidding structure.
Thatcher Gray opens the door.
Pipers father is dressed in a long-
sleeve white shirt, dark crisply creased
slacks, and polished Italian loafers. His
gray hair is trimmed close to the sides
and top of his narrow head. Piper leans
in to kiss her father, her full, red mouth a
stark contrast to her fathers thin,
bloodless lips. Thatcher extends his
hand to me coolly.
Mick, he says, his close-set blue
eyes scrutinizing me. We shake
perfunctorily before Thatcher bends to
pick up Gabby. And hows the prettiest
girl in the world? he says as he lifts
her. Gabby looks back at me and rolls
her eyes, clearly thinking, Not this
again.
The four of us move through the living
and dining rooms to the kitchen, where
Helen Gray is preparing dinner. Helen, a
petite woman wearing a green cocktail
dress, turns as we enter, her eyes and
mouth smiling widely. She hugs and
kisses all three of us, then offers Piper
and me some wine.
From the cellar, Thatcher says
about the wine, reminding us about the
wine cellar he had built into his
basement earlier that summer. Piper told
me the construction cost almost $50,000
a steep enough price that Thatcher
decided to cancel his and Helens annual
trip to Europe in the fall. According to
Piper, her mother was upset by this, but,
of course, didnt share that with her
husband. Thatcher Gray suffers criticism
poorly.
During dinner, Helen asks how soon
itll be that Gabby goes off to first grade.
 Its less than two weeks now, I tell
her. Gabby has been getting more and
more excited as we get close to it. Our
daughter enjoys learning new things, but
what shes really looking forward to is
the social component.
School is imperative, Gabrielle,
Thatcher declares, leaning toward
Gabby. You want to have a nice house
when you grow up, and nice clothes and
nice friends. School is where you learn
the things you need to know to get them.
Gabby looks down at her plate and
pushes around her vegetables as her
grandfather lectures her.
This trout almondine is superb, I
tell Helen. Youve really outdone
yourself.
 Helen beams, but her smile fades
quickly as her husband pipes in.
I had the best trout almondine for
lunch the other week, Thatcher
declares. In the city, at that restaurant
on Rittenhouse Square. The one thats
fitted out like a French bistro. Whats it
called? Parc?
I shoot an annoyed glance at Piper as
Helen takes a long draw on her wine.
Piper ignores me, asks her father how
hes doing.
Id be doing better if it werent for
the economy, he answers. First the
Chinese threaten to take down the whole
world with their inflated stock market,
and now those idiots in England are
leaving the EEC, thanks to the millions
of low-income voters who have no clue
as to how the global markets work.
If the House of Lords were ever to
award seats to Americans, Thatcher
Gray would be the first man to get one.
There were plenty of big-money men
who voted to leave, too, I say. They
have to take some share of the blame.
Pipers father doesnt miss a beat.
Big-money men like the one youre
representing? Phillip Baldwin. That
SOB hurt a lot of good people. Including
a number of my friends and fellow club
members. And youre trying to get him
off scot-free.
Actually, hes going to plead. Hes
just signed the agreement. Hell
probably report to prison sometime next
week. Itll be in the papers, Im sure.
Thatcher chews on this for a moment.
How long will he get?
The term is twenty years, though
hell likely be out in ten. A full decade
behind bars.
Ten years! For what he did? That
villain should rot until the next ice age.
Helen comes to my defense. Ten
years isnt nothing, Thatcher. Im sure
prison will be pretty awful for him.
Not a man to brook dissent from his
own wife, Thatcher shoots Helen a sharp
look. Helen picks up her wine and looks
away. Piper keeps her own counsel, not
wanting to get between her parents.
Shes made that mistake before.
We sit uncomfortably for a few
minutes, then Thatcher takes another
tack. Swirling his wine, he looks over at
me and says, Baldwin going to trial
would have brought in a lot of money for
your firm, I imagine.
I try to feign nonchalance. The firms
doing well, so the Baldwin things not a
big deal.
Thatcher glances quickly at Piper.
Hes won the point, and we both know
it. Still, he hasnt cut me deeply enough.
He goes for my Achilles heel.
Hows that brother of yours?
Pipers father has met Tommy a
handful of times. Despite Pipers best
efforts to get her father to warm to
Tommy, the older man has shown no
interest in befriending my brother, or
even acknowledging his right to exist. I
smile inwardly as I recall Tommys
initial description of Thatcher Gray:
Sir Thatcher, a stick up his own ass.
Before I can answer her father, Piper
chimes in. Tommys doing very well.
Hes been a great help to me in my
gardens, and hes working hard with
Mick on the David Hanson case.
At the mention of Davids name,
Thatcher winces. Like many of the citys
big-firm lawyers, Thatcher isnt sure
how to deal with the charges against
David. On the one hand, social propriety
requires that a certain distance be
maintained. On the other, if David
manages to escape conviction and
reclaim his old job as general counsel of
Hanson World Industries, he will once
again control the allocation of millions
of dollars in legal work.
When dinner is finished, I volunteer
to help Helen with the dishes as Piper
and her father repair to his study. After
were finished loading the dishwasher,
Helen and I join Piper and Sir
Thatcher. When we enter the study, we
find the two of them sitting on the tufted
leather couch that is positioned in front
of Thatchers antique mahogany desk.
Good news, honey! Piper exclaims
when she sees me. Fathers going to
lend us the money to get the new roof!
As soon as weve put Gabby to bed and
were in our own bedroom, I start in.
What the hell, Piper? I mean, really.
What did you tell him when you were
alone? That all that stuff I said about the
firm doing well was just a bunch of
bullshit?
I didnt say any such thing. I just said
we needed a new roof, and money was a
little tight, thats all.
I want to hit something, Im so
frustrated. For fucks sake. We do not
need a new roof! The one we have is
fine! Why arent you hearing me?
Why arent you hearing me? The
roof is not fine. Its flimsy and it puts our
house in danger.
I dont even know how to respond to
this. Its just nuts. But then again, I know
its not really the roof thats tormenting
Piper. My heart is beating a mile a
minute as I decide to give Piper a chance
to share whats really going on.
I dont know whats happening with
you, I say. Youve been moving away
from me for a long time. I can see that.
But these past couple months, its like
youre running away. Youre always off
with one of your girlfriends, in New
York, or out for the night, or whatever.
And when you are at home, youre either
attacking me or not really here.
Piper looks over at me, her eyes
incredulous. Me not here? Wow, Mick.
Fucking wow.
I turn away and start to leave.
 Yeah, thats it. Walk away, Mick. Go
somewhere else.
Fuck you! I shout over my shoulder
as I stomp down the stairs.
 11
MONDAY, AUGUST 20

Finally, some good news. Its just before

noon on Monday. Im sitting in my
office, having just hung up the phone
with Arthur Hogarth. A-Hog, as hes
been nicknamed by the bar, is the
managing partner at Hogarth,
Blumenthal, and Fishbein, Phillys most
successful, headline-grabbing personal-
injury firm.
The poorest-kept secret in the legal
profession is that the easiest way to
make money is to refer personal-injury
cases to guys like Arthur Hogarth.
Although as the referring lawyer youre
still technically part of the clients legal
team, the A-Hogs and their lackeys do
all the work on the case and, just as
important, front all the costs. The end
result is that you, as the referring
attorney, spend no time on the case,
invest no overhead, bear no risk, but
reap the rewards when someone like
Arthur obtains a settlement or collects
on a verdict.
This happened with one of my own
clients, Candice Crenshaw, a twenty-
two-year-old performance artist at
Delilahs Den who was arrested for drug
possession three years ago. Id beaten
the charges. A year after that, the young
stripper was back in my office, opening
her shirt to me. Candys left breast was
the most perfectly sculpted breast I had
ever seen. Her right breast was a
pancake and had more stitches than a
Raggedy Anne doll. As it turned out, the
right-side implant had burst during
augmentation surgery, bringing on a
massive infection that destroyed the
mammary.
An hour after Candy appeared in my
office, I walked her through the doors of
Hogarth, Blumenthal, and Fishbein for a
meeting with Arthur. Over the course of
the next two years, A-Hog navigated
Candys broken boob case through the
legal system. He sued everyone even
remotely involved in the enhancement
surgery: the surgeon, the nurses, the
anesthesiologist, two residents
observing the surgery as part of their
rotation, the hospital, the implant
manufacturer. He mowed down scores of
people in depositions. He identified
dozens of witnesses ready to testify to
what an upbeat, happy, well-balanced,
good-natured, responsible, wonderful,
doting, and saintly friend, daughter,
sister, neighbor, convenience-store
customer, mass-transit rider, and God-
fearing American Candy was before she
was turned into a circus freak. And what
a hopeless, despairing, distraught,
defeated, deflated, destitute, God-fearing
American her deformity had caused her
to become. Impressively, Arthurs
witnesses included Leon Auerback, the
big-time Hollywood agent (and, Arthur
confided in me, his college roommate),
who showed up at his deposition to
reveal that just before Candys surgery,
she had been about to sign on for a
starring role in an edgy series on HBO.
The upshot, I tell Susan as she sits
in my office, is that the case has just
settled for three and a half million.
Susan lets this sink in for a minute.
So our third of Arthurs third is . . . ?
Three hundred and eighty-nine
thousand.
At my mention of the amount, Susan
exhales. Breathing room, she says.
Finally.
Lets take everyone to lunch, I say.
In the wake of the unexpected ending
to the Phillip Baldwin case, wed been
putting pressure on Vaughn, and our
paralegals, Jill and Andrea, to file as
many motions, interview as many
witnesses, do as much legal research as
possible in our other cases, bill as many
hours as they couldto generate cash
flow. Everyone is exhausted, and the
pressure in the office is palpable. We all
need a break.
Half an hour later, the whole firm
Susan, me, Angie, Vaughn, paralegals
Andrea and Jill, even nineteen-year-old
Katrina, our file clerkare seated
around the table in the center of the main
dining room of the Capital Grill. As our
waiter brings our appetizers, Angie asks
where Tommy is.
Still out chasing alibi witnesses for
Terrell Davis. Terrell Daviss case is
another murder scheduled to go to trial
the month after David Hansonsand
we still hadnt found the two friends
Terrell claimed he was with across town
at the time of the drive-by shooting hes
accused of taking part in. Its not that our
client hasnt done his best to help us. So
far, Terrell has given Tommy three pairs
of names. But every time Tommy
interviews the potential alibis, they fall
apart on close questioning. Terrells got
to find some friends who can memorize
a simple story line, Tommy had
complained.
I share this with the group, and we all
chuckle. Then Vaughn tells a story about
a call girl he once represented who went
by the name of Wednesday. So I asked
her why not pick some other day of the
week, say, Saturday or Monday? She
looks at me like Im dumb as wood.
Isnt it obvious? she says. Wednesday
is hump day.
We all burst out laughing. Vaughns
punch line opens a valve, unleashing the
pressure thats been building inside of us
for the past few months. Susan and I take
turns regaling the table with our own
tales, and I realize this is what I love
about practicing in a firm like ours. It is
a truism among lawyers that the practice
of law would be great were it not for the
clients. And criminal-defense attorneys
complain the loudest of all. After all, our
clients are not only needy and
demandingthey are also, for the most
part, criminals. Some are violent
criminals, sociopaths, or pathological
narcissists.
But these are the worst of the lot, and
the fewest. Most of our clients dont find
themselves in orange jumpsuits because
they harbor a truly malicious nature.
They run afoul of the law because their
neighborhoods and schools teem with
indolence, indifference, and outright
criminality. They fail not because theyre
unable to adapt to societys mores, but
because they adapt too well to the rules
of poverty and violence that govern the
world in which theyre raised.
Lawyers like me, firms like mine, do
our best to guide these men and women
through the intestines of the dragon they
woke up inside. If theyre lucky, well
get them out the other end before too
much more damage is done. If were
lucky, well get paid fairly and enjoy a
few laughs along the wayto go with
the tears, frustrations, and outright
defeats.
Almost as though shes been reading
my mind, Susan looks at me and says,
Not like being a DA, is it?
I smile and shake my head.
Would you ever go back? asks
Vaughn.
 I dont even have to think about it.
No, I answer. Nothing more. Just no.
The waiter delivers our entres, and
the conversation lulls. We order more
drinks and desserts as well. By the time
we stand to leave, we are stuffed and
loopy. The sun makes us squint our eyes
as we leave the darkened restaurant and
head back to the office for what we all
know will be an afternoon of zero
productivity.

After wasting an hour at my desk, Im

about ready to pack it in when Vaughn
and Susan enter and turn on my TV.
Devlin Walker stands behind a walnut
podium, solemnly explaining that the
investigating grand jury has
recommended charges be brought against
seventeen members of the Thirteenth and
Fifteenth Districts of the Philadelphia
Police Department, all of whom, he
announces, were arrested at their homes
in the early-morning hours. Devlin
drones on about no one being above the
law. Then he begins to read off the
names of the officers arrested.
An hour after the press conference
wraps up, Angie buzzes me. Devlin
Walkers on the phone, she says. Line
one.
I lift the headset and punch the button.
McFarland.
You saw?
 I saw. And?
Its time, Mick. Get Hanson to plead.
Ill accept involuntary manslaughter.
Heat of passion. But I need the laptop.
More names could be on it. More bad
cops.
Hanson doesnt have the laptop.
Because he didnt kill Yamura.
Just remember, the laptop has to be
pristine. I dont want a single file
touched. Not a single document. You
hearing me?
You have a nice day, I say.
Goddamn it, Mick! Im giving your
client an easy way out.
Easy? Its my turn to shout. Plead
to a crime he didnt commit? Go to
prison? Lose what little is left of his
reputation? Produce a computer he
doesnt have? Exactly which part of that
is the easy part?
Just do your job and convey the
offer. A few years for manslaughter, or
the rest of his life for murder one. And
dont forget about the computer. Its the
only reason Im even talking to you.
Well see you at trial.
I hang up the phone, lean back in my
chair, and close my eyes. Devlins
obsession with Jennifer Yamuras
laptop, and his insistence that it be
turned over completely untouched, tells
me that he knows something about the
computer that I dont.
 12
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

Two weeks after the indictment of the

crooked cops and Devlin Walkers call,
Vaughn enters my office. Tommy was
right about the robberies, he says. The
police records show that the week
Jennifer Yamura was killed, there were
three daylight burglaries close to her
house. Two of the robberies happened
before Jennifer was killed, one after.
Police catch anyone?
 Vaughn shakes his head.
Ill tell Tommy to get statements
from the property owners. Well list
them as witnesses.
Vaughn smiles. Im starting to smell
reasonable doubt.
Weve a long way to go.
Vaughn leaves, and I call Tommy and
tell him that the cop who tipped him off
to the mini crime wave was right. We
have the addresses and owners
information, I say. Ill e-mail them to
you now. Swing by and get their
statements.
Sure, Tommy says. He sounds tired.
I ask how Lawrence Washington is
holding up, and tell him Im concerned
about him harboring an AWOL witness
wanted by the police. The idea that
Devlin Walker will find out that
Lawrence has been holed up with
Tommy scares the shit out of me. If
Walker found out about Tommys link to
Lawrence, he might figure out that
Tommy was involved in the drug ring. I
like Lawrence, but I dont trust that he
would go to jail to keep Tommy out. And
I wont allow my brother to be taken
back to prison.
You dont have to worry about
Lawrence, Tommy answers. He knows
how to keep a secret.
Surejust ask his buddies in the
drug ring.
Tommy says nothing on the other end,
but I can feel the tension.
 Look, if the prosecutors find out
Lawrence hid your involvement, his plea
deal will be voided, and hell be staring
at a long prison sentence. Theyll use
that to turn him against you.
Lawrence owes me, Mick. Thats the
difference between me and those other
cops. And a long prison term isnt in
Lawrences futureno matter what
happens.
I dont get the insinuation, and I tell
Tommy so.
Lawrence has liver cancer. Its
metastasized to his lungs and his brain.
He wants to enjoy his freedom while he
still can. I told him he can stay at the
trailer as long as he wants. Ill keep
going up whenever Im able. Bring
supplies, help him. Keep him company.
Until . . .
You really want to go through this
again?
Hey. Im the rock. The Slab.
Remember? Tommy tries to sound
lighthearted, but his voice is tinged with
bitterness.
I cant recall exactly when I first
became cognizant of my fathers
coughing. I want to say it was in tenth or
eleventh grade. At first, Tommy and I
made jokes about the old mans smoking.
But as time went on and the hacking
worsened, we got more serious with
him, pressuring him to quit. He did,
finally, when I was a senior in high
school and Tommy a sophomore. By then
it was too late, though none of us knew
it. And it wouldnt have made any
difference if our father had quit
cigarettes years earlieror never even
started smoking. It wasnt the smokes
that killed him but his job at Manheim
Newbestos, the asbestos plant where he
had worked for twenty years as a
machinist.
When I left home after graduation,
Dad was coughing as bad as ever, but he
was still working and looked healthy
enough to wrestle a bear. Throughout my
freshman and sophomore years in
college, Dad still looked pretty strong,
though he often seemed to have a hard
time catching his breath. I remember
being home during the summer and
tossing a football around with Tommy
and our father in the field behind our
house, and Dad going out for a long pass
and then being bent over at the knees,
sucking air after hed caught the ball.
Tommy and I exchanged concerned
glances, but Dad shrugged it off and told
us it was no big deal. When summer was
over, I went back to college for my
junior year. Whenever I called home,
Tommy would tell me Dad seemed to be
getting worse, but when I returned for
Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter,
he appeared energetic enough and had a
positive attitude. Id asked him more
than once when Tommy wasnt around
how he was doing, and he said that,
apart from the cough and the wheezing,
he felt fine.
Still, I wasnt all that surprised when,
after my brother graduated from high
school, he told me he was putting off
enlisting in the military for a while to
stay home with the old man.
The summer between my junior and
senior years, I stayed on campus because
I had a chance to work in a local law
office. Before the summer started,
though, I did get a chance to go home
once. It was then that I began to see a
marked change in Dads appearance.
Hed lost weight and his skin didnt look
right. I made a point of getting home
every other weekend, and it seemed that
Dad had plateaued. He didnt look great,
but he didnt seem to be getting worse. I
remember saying so to Tommy one night
late in August after the three of us had
gone out for some beers at a bar near our
house. Tommy and I were sitting together
on the picnic table in our small
backyard. It was after midnight, and the
sky was brilliant with stars.
Tommy raised his head for a long
moment and looked back at me, hard.
But he is worse, Mick.
January of my senior year, Tommy
called to tell me our father had retired
and hired a lawyer. When I asked why,
Tommy answered with a single word:
Asbestos. It was only then that I put
two and two together and realized that
our father wasnt suffering emphysema
from smoking. I called one of the
lawyers I had worked for in State
College that summer, and he told me all
about the massive asbestos litigation that
had been going on around the country for
years. I drove home that night and, after
our father had gone to bed, pressured
Tommy to tell me how bad he really
was.
Come on, Mick. Open your eyes! Or
your ears. He coughs nonstop. Hes lost
thirty pounds. Hes bad. You already
know that. Stop bullshitting meand
yourself.
Ill withdraw from school. Help you
take care of him.
Tommy snorted, an angry sound. You
have one more semester. Go back to
school. Finish up. Graduate. Then you
can help me with Dad.
Tommy and I spoke to our father, who
said he agreed with Tommy. After you
graduate, the three of us will take a road
trip together, he said. I always wanted
to rent one of those big Winnebagos, go
to the Grand Canyon.
So I went back to State College for
my last semester. The second week of
April, my phone rang at two in the
morning. I leaned over in bed and picked
up the receiver. The air at the other end
of the line was dead for a full five
seconds. Hello? Whos there? I asked
impatiently, my eyes still closed.
Dads gone.
I bolted up in bed. What
happened?
 But Tommy had already hung up.
The next few weeks were a blur. The
long drive home. My fathers lifeless
body in his bed. The funeral. The wake.
The meetings with the lawyers. I floated
through it all in zombielike numbness.
The only thing I can remember with any
clarity is my brother. As distant from the
ordeal as I felt, Tommy seemed to me to
be wholly present, wholly in controlof
himself, our relatives, the attorneys,
funeral directors, caterers. Me. I think it
was the first time Id ever seen my little
brother as a grown-up, as a man. It
startled me. I was twenty-two years old,
a senior in college with three years of
law school ahead of me. I was a student,
and I saw myself that way. Not a child
but not fully an adult yet, either. I had the
body of a man, the face of a man, but
hadnt even begun making my way in the
world. My twenty-year-old kid brother,
on the other hand, had been working for
two years at the local ball-bearing plant.
Hed become the caretaker of our ailing
father. He paid the bills. Painted and
rewired the house. Took our father to his
doctors appointments, nursed and
entertained him at home. And when Dad
passed, Tommy took control of the
situation like an old-time party boss.
But then, a few weeks after Id
graduated and come home for the
summer, Tommy fell apart. I turned in
early one night. Tommy was sitting on
the couch, watching TV with a beer in
his hand when I went up to bed. The next
morning when I came downstairs,
Tommy was still sitting there. The TV
was still on. Tommy wasnt holding the
beer anymore, though, but an empty fifth
of Jack Daniels. Half a dozen empty
beer bottles littered the coffee table. I
asked Tommy if he was all right. He
ignored me, kept staring at the
television. I cleared the coffee table,
removed the whiskey bottle from
Tommys hand, and turned off the TV.
Tommy closed his eyes but otherwise
didnt move a muscle.
Tommy didnt leave the house for
three days. He didnt bathe or shave,
either. Or change clothes. His eyes grew
hollow. Because he wasnt eating,
Tommy began to lose weight. His
chiseled face grew gaunt, his skin turned
sallow. The thing that frightened me
most, though, was what I saw in his
eyes. Tommy was afraid. More than
afraid. And I thought Id figured out why.
After our mother died, Tommy had
latched on to our father like a barnacle
on a keel. Wherever Dad went, Tommy
went. Whatever Dad did, Tommy was
there helping him. When Dad worked on
the car, Tommy handed him his tools.
Tommy accompanied our father to Home
Depot and Lowes, the grocery store,
beer distributorseverywhere. And it
dawned on me, finally, that Tommy was
hanging around our father for protection.
Whatever had seized our mother and
killed her before our very eyes had left
our father standing. As strong as death
was, Tommy had believed, our dad was
stronger.
Dads invincibility, I decided, had
become a core tenet of young Tommys
belief system. But that a priori principle
had just been shattered. Death had come
for our father, just as it had hunted down
our mother. The only thing Dads
gargantuan strength had bought him was
a long, slow demise. Death couldnt
knock the old man down with a single
blow as it had his wife, so it picked him
apart, piece by piece, pound by pound,
and ate him alive. Tommy had witnessed
it happen, and he was terrified. And
there was something more. Tommy had
stood shoulder to shoulder with my
father through the whole thing, tried to
fight off the old mans death himself. But
hed failed. And Tommys failure to save
our father, I decided, filled him with
guilt. I could see that, too, in Tommys
eyes. Bottomless guilt.
I congratulated myself for figuring it
all out, and I fed Tommy every timeworn
bromide I could think of. There was
nothing Tommy could have done. It was
just Dads time. Tommy had his whole
life ahead of him. Dad was now with
Mom, and they both wanted Tommy to be
happy.
Tommy sat in perfect stillness while I
counseled him. Sometimes hed just grit
his teeth and stare at the wall, the
television, some spot on the ceiling.
Sometimes hed close his eyes and shake
his head. And sometimes hed glare at
me, every muscle in his granite body
tensed up like he was ready to spring,
tear me apart. And when he got that way,
I became afraid. Tommy was a physical
force, like our father had been. God help
any man Tommy turned against.
The summer months wore on. I spent
my nights tending bar at a local pub
owned by a high school classmate. When
I came home from work at 2:30 or 3:00
in the morning, Tommy would still be
awake. Wed exchange some small talk,
then Id go to bed while Tommy stayed
downstairs, pacing the floor, drinking,
watching television, occasionally crying.
In early August, Tommy went back to
work at the ball-bearing plant. He lasted
two days before getting into a fight with
his foreman and storming out of the
building. Tommy told me what had
happened when I got home from work,
and I blew my top at him. I told him he
had to pull himself together. I urged him
to go down to the local recruitment
office and resume his long-held plan to
make it to the Special Forces.
Youre falling apart at the seams, I
told him. You need structure. And with
Dad gone, theres no reason to put off
your own dreams any longer. Just take
the first step. Stop being self-
destructive. Youre beating yourself up
for no reason. Theres nothing you could
have done.
Tommy, sitting on the couch, his head
in his hands, looked up at me with red-
rimmed eyes.
Youve always been smart, Mick.
Real smart. But you dont know
anything.
What the hell is that supposed to
mean? I was shouting. I couldnt bear to
see my brother like this. Whats with
all the self-pity? I look at you the past
couple months, and I ask myself who is
living in my house. I dont know this guy.
He looks like my brother, but he sure as
hell doesnt act like him. Come on.
Clean yourself up. Stand up and move
forward. Man up, Tommy. Man the fuck
up!
 I stormed up the stairs and slammed
shut the door to my bedroom. After a
few minutes, full of remorse, I walked
back down to apologize to Tommy. But
he was gone. The front door was wide
open, and our dads pickup had
disappeared from the driveway. Tommy
was back on the couch the next night
when I came home from work. I tried to
apologize, but Tommy brushed me off.
Its no big deal, he said. Leave it
alone.
The following week, the money came
in. By the time my father died, huge
funds of money had been set aside by the
courts to pay out asbestos claims. Some
cases went to trial, but most were settled
out of court, according to criteria that
had been agreed to by the plaintiffs
attorneys and corporate defense counsel.
My fathers case was one that settled. A
big factor, I learned, was the dying
deposition he had given a month before
he passed. Dad was videotaped lying in
his bed, on oxygen, as he was questioned
by his own counsel and then by three
lawyers representing the asbestos
companies. The ordeal went on for
almost two hours, during which our dad,
with Tommy sitting next to him and
holding his hand, talked about his life,
his marriage, his sons, and his illness
coughing, hacking, and choking all the
while. I had no idea this ever took place
until my fathers lawyer mentioned it to
me when he called to say the case had
settled. After the call, I asked Tommy
about it.
It was pathetic, he answered.
Fucking pathetic. I think that was the
whole point, he added bitterly. But I
guess it got the job done.
I was stunned by the amount of money
the case settled for. Even after the 40
percent siphoned off by the lawyers and
with the case expenses and medical
liens, Tommy and I each ended up with
more than $200,000. Enough to pay for
law school for me. Enough, it turned out,
to fuel Tommys sudden flight from
whatever demons were tormenting him.
Two weeks after I left for law school,
I received a postcard from South Beach.
I turned the card over and read Tommys
scribble: Sun, sand, and blondes. It
doesnt get any better. No phone
number or address. Six weeks later, just
before Thanksgiving, I received another
postcard, from Cancn, Mexico. On the
back of the card, Tommy had again
scratched some vacuous contrivance
intended to convince me of what a great
time he was having, ending with Happy
Turkey Day, bro. I figured that was
Tommys way of saying we werent
going to get together for the holidays. It
was six months before I received the
next postcard. This one was from San
Francisco, and it featured the zigzagging
Lombard Street, billed as the crookedest
street in the world. More postcards
dribbled in over the next three years,
from the redwood parklands in Northern
California; the Grand Canyon; ski
resorts in Colorado, Montana, and
Wyoming; and the beaches of Fort
Lauderdale and the Bahamas.
It wasnt until the summer after Id
graduated from law school that I laid
eyes again on my brother. I was at our
fathers house, meeting with the owner
of a small cleaning service I was
interviewing. The housekeeper whod
kept the place up was moving, and I had
to hire a replacement. The phone rang,
and it was Tommy on the other end. He
was at the Greyhound bus station
downtown and asked if Id pick him up.
Tommy was waiting on the curb when
I pulled up, a small knapsack sitting on
the pavement beside him. He was
sunburned and bloated, carrying a lot of
extra weight. His eyes were bloodshot.
He had a weeks worth of whiskers and
unkempt hair. When he climbed into the
passenger seat, he grinned broadly and
shook my hand.
So, how was law school? he
blurted, his words carrying a not-so-
faint aroma of stale beer.
Interesting, I replied, trying to hide
the coolness I was feeling toward him.
How was . . . the Western
hemisphere?
Fanfuckintastic.
I guess so. Sounds like you jet-setted
to the four corners.
I wanted to add something sharp
about coming home on a bus. Tommys
share of the money from the lawsuit was,
obviously, gone.
My plan had been to drive back to my
apartment in Philly once Id shored
things up with the new house cleaners.
With Tommy home, though, I decided to
stick around for a few weeks. I lasted
three days. Living with Tommy was like
sharing a house with a pack of nocturnal
rodents. He was up all night and was
loud about it. The television and stereo
blaring, shouting matches over the phone
with some woman hed left in
Albuquerque, New Mexico. And in the
morning, bottles and pizza boxes strewn
across the coffee table and floor. Socks
and sneakers and T-shirts, even his
boxers, left on the furniture.
I suppressed my anger, my disgust.
Half a dozen times I sat down with
Tommy, described the last three years of
my lifethe rigors of law school, the
imperious professors, my initial
concerns that I wasnt smart enough for
an Ivy League law school, being
intimidated by the wealth and
worldliness of some of my classmates,
my hopes and fears about starting to
work in the fall at the district attorneys
office. Then Id pause and wait for
Tommy to open up to me. Nothing came
out. Unless you counted some sordid
story of how hed nailed two NFL
cheerleaders in Dallas. Or how he and
his buddy had kicked three other guys
asses outside a bar in Detroit and spent
the weekend in the pokey. Tommy shared
nothing about what was going on inside
him. The only nanosecond of honest
emotion he betrayed was in response to
my mention of our father, when a dozen
dark colors flashed across his eyes.
In the early afternoon of my fourth day
with Tommy, I woke him up on the couch
and told him I had to get back to
Philadelphia. But you should stay here
as long as you want. Im going to call the
lawyers and tell them to draft something
up, to transfer my share of the house to
you. I want you to own it by yourself. I
have a little money left, and Ill make
enough at the DAs office to pay my
rent. Tommy thanked me and said he
was planning to go down to the
lumberyard hed worked at when he was
in high school. He said theyd given him
a standing offer to come back anytime he
wanted. I told him that was a great idea;
then I walked out and drove away.
A month later, with the title to our
dads house now exclusively in his
name, Tommy hired a real estate agent.
He had her price the house for a fast
sale. As had happened the year our
father died, Tommy was on the road
before Thanksgiving. This time, though,
the first contact I had fromactually,
aboutTommy didnt come in the form
of a postcard, but a phone call. Early in
February, I received a call at my office
from Spencer Watley, a classmate of
mine at Penn Law. Like me, Spencer had
just begun his career as a prosecutor.
Not in Philadelphia, though; he had
returned to his home in Pensacola,
Florida. Spencer called me to let me
know hed just been assigned a case in
which the defendant had badly beaten up
another man who, it turned out, was an
off-duty police officer. The defendant
was Tommy.
The background check showed he
was from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and
youd talked to me about a brother
named Tommy. I thought Id call and
give you a heads-up in case your brother
couldnt get through to you.
I exhaled and asked where Tommy
was in the process.
 Still in lockup, waiting for his
arraignment. I dont think he has a public
defender yet.
Whats the charge going to be?
Spencer paused before answering.
Aggravated battery.
I froze. Aggravated battery is a felony
that can carry serious jail time.
It was a cop, Mick. And your
brother beat the hell out of him.
I said nothing.
Plus, there are all the priors.
Priors?
Spencer read through a long list of
messes and altercations Tommy had
gotten himself into during the previous
three years. Most involved fistfights that
were pled out on public nuisance and
intoxication charges. Tommy had copped
to two assault charges, however, and
spent several months in jail. His
carefree tour of the Americas and
Mexico hadnt been so carefree, after
all.
He never told me about any of this,
I said, more to myself than to Watley. Is
there anything you can do for him?
Reduce the charges to simple battery?
Spencer paused at the other end of the
line. Ill see what I can do. But even
with simple battery . . . with his record,
hell still do close to a year.
I sigh. A lot better than what hed
face for agg battery. Ill owe you one,
Spencer.
A big one.
 It was almost a month before Tommy
returned my many calls to his cell phone.
By then hed been out on bail and had
rented an apartment in Pensacola until
his plea deal was finalized.
Why did you have to get involved?
he asked, defensive from the outset.
Youre welcome, I snapped back.
I didnt need your help with this.
You were facing an aggravated-
battery charge.
I could have gotten them to reduce
it.
You think so? It was a cop, Tommy.
And the prosecutor told me about your
priors. Why didnt you tell me about any
of that? And what the hell is going on
with you that youre getting into so much
trouble?
Its not a big deal. A few dustups is
all.
By now my head was starting to bake.
This shit isnt a joke, Tommy! Youve
probably already fucked up your chances
of getting into Special Forces. And law
enforcement isnt going to touch you
now. What happened to all of your
plans?
On the other end of the phone, Tommy
laughed bitterly. My plans are dead. I
guess I killed em.
And with that, Tommy hung up.
This is why Im so concerned about
Tommy now. As if going through an
endless deathwatch with my father didnt
scar him badly enough, now he seems to
be planning to put himself through it all
over againfor Lawrence Washington. I
figure Tommys had his act together for
so long that he may not remember his
long, hard fall to the bottom. I close my
eyes and shake my head.
Not again, I say quietly.
Please, God, not again.
 13
WEDNESDAY,
SEPTEMBER 19

Its the middle of September. I enter the

firm, wave to Angie. The minute I reach
my office, she buzzes to tell me our
banker, Sandra Linney, is on the line.
When I pick up the phone, Sandra says
shes near my building, asks if she can
come up and meet with me and Susan. I
tell her sure and punch Susans
extension. The line goes directly to
Angie.
Wheres Susan? I ask.
Not here, Angie answers.
Doctors appointment.
I walk into our office kitchen, brew
myself a cup of coffee on the Keurig. By
the time Im finished, Sandras at
reception and I walk her to my office.
She sits across from my desk. She
doesnt look happy.
Let me guess, I say. Im dying.
Sandra looks puzzled. Thats what your
face looks like. Like a doctor about to
tell a patient he has a week to live.
Sandra forces a smile. Its not that
bad. But it is bad. She takes a deep
breath. The banks in trouble. We failed
a federal stress test, and the government
is all over us to clean ourselves up, pull
in as much of our unsecured paper as
possible.
I know now where this is going, and
the bottom falls out of my stomach. The
line of credit to our firm is unsecured.
Its not backed up by real estate or cash,
just my signature and Susans. Jesus,
Sandra.
I dont have a choice. My bosses say
I have to call in the loan.
Who can I talk to? Who can I meet
with?
Sandra shakes her head. No one. The
decisions been made. If it makes you
any happier, youre not the only one I
have to deliver this news to. At least you
have some money coming in to cover the
loan. You just settled that big case, right?
What was itCrenshaw?
You bitchI want to scream it at her.
I know exactly why theyve chosen to
call in the loan now. I believe in being
transparent with all the companies that
do business with the firm. When I got
Arthur Hogarths call about the
Crenshaw case, I e-mailed Sandra about
our coming windfall. Now, almost
exactly thirty days laterthe normal
period between a settlement and the
plaintiffs receipt of the checkSandra
is in my office with her hand out.
Youve been a good customer, Mick.
Moving forward, we can
Moving forward?
 She knows we wont be moving
forward. That Ill close out our
accounts, move the money to another
bank.
As soon as shes gone, I pull up
QuickBooks on the computer. The
$275,000 balance on the line of credit
will eat up all but $111,000 of our share
of the Crenshaw settlement. About
enough to keep the firm breathing for a
month. Which would be bad enough if
Susan and I hadnt sucked $30,000 out of
the firm the day after Hogarths call. I
couldnt wait to get home that day to tell
Piper that we wouldnt have to borrow
money from her father for the new roof. I
took her a check for $15,000, half the
cost of the roof, to use as the down
payment. My taking the $15,000, of
course, meant that Susan had the right to
do the same, and she did so to pay for a
new living-room suite for her apartment.
I close my door and tell Angie not to
let any calls through. Tomorrow, Ill
have to tell Vaughn and the others that
our windfall is going to blow right past
us and that theyll all have to send the
billable-hour clock spinning again. More
motions. More hours in the office.
Anything that lets us withdraw money
from the client-retainer accounts.
The phone rings again. I pick up the
receiver, ready to ream Angie. But
before I can start, she tells me its Piper.
I exhale and say Ill take it. Piper gets
right down to business. The roofers are
ready to start tomorrow, and theyre
looking for the second half of their
money.
Before they start?
That was for the materials, Piper
explains. The new money is to pay the
workers. Is there a problem?
Ill bring home a check tonight, I
say curtly, then hang up. Things have
been especially bad between us since
our blowup after we returned home from
dinner with her parents. Were civil with
each other, but just barely. Im still angry
at Pipers soliciting money from her
father for the new roof. Im annoyed,
too, over her stinging remarks about my
always leaving. As if my working hard
is an excuse for her to play the bitter
housewife. And all my ill feelings are
just the gloss covering a black ball of
rage. Its taking all my strength not to
launch the nukes, put everything on the
table. But its too soon.

Its four oclock and Im standing at the

reception desk, signing a letter for Angie
to mail when two men saunter in. My
two best friends, I say. Detectives
Tredesco and Cook. Come to tell me
the DAs dropping the charges against
David Hanson? Youve decided to look
for the real killer? Maybe even dig up
some actual evidence?
Tredesco snorts. Theres that famous
sense of humor I told you about, he says
to his partner. Nah, Hansons going
down. But you may be right about
evidence. How about we have a chat.
I lead the detectives into the
conference room. Okay, John. So what
brings you to my little kingdom?
Its the incriminating calls, he
answers. The calls your panicked client
placed to you after he killed Jennifer
Yamura.
My heart skips a beat. Tredesco is
walking in the wrong direction, but I
know instantly what hes getting at. Still,
I play dumb. I look at Cook and say,
Your partner fall off the wagon?
Tredesco is instantly pissed. Fuck
you, Mick. Im seven years clean and
sober. And dont act like you dont know
what Im talking about. The phone
records show two calls from Jennifer
Yamuras iPhone to your office. One at
11:45. And one at 12:30. Im figuring
Hanson called you just after he sent the
reporter down the stairway to heaven
and then a little later, just before he left
the house. Or is the phone company
wrong?
Tredesco is wrong about the calls, of
course. They were both from Jennifer
herself. The first was to set up the
appointment to see me. The second was
when she moved the appointment up.
Something had happened between the
calls to upset her, though she didnt tell
me over the phone what it was.
 I smile smugly at Tredesco. Youre
so far off course that part of me wants to
keep my mouth shut and watch you
flounder. But Im too soft. So Im going
to help you out here. Both of those calls
were placed to me by Jennifer Yamura.
She wanted to hire me to represent her in
connection with the grand-jury mess. She
called once to set a time to come in, then
a second time because she decided she
needed to get together sooner.
Tredescos eyes flash fury. Hed
shown up thinking he was going to catch
me off balance. He probably figured
that, as Davids attorney, I would
reflexively hide behind attorney-client
privilege, which would have only
confirmed what he suspectedthat the
calls on Jennifers cell phone had indeed
come from David.
Horseshit. All that story tells me is
that you and Hanson worked out a cover
for the calls. Youre smart; Ill give you
that. Sos your client. But both of you
together arent going to think your way
out of this mess. Tredesco shoots out of
his seat, turns, and leaves.
Ed Cook sits for a moment, staring at
me blankly, a deer in the headlights.
Then he, too, stands and leaves. This
time he doesnt shake my hand.
Hes learning.
 14
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER
25

Its Tuesday morning, the week after the

banks decision to call in our line of
credit. Ive told Susan, and shes as
stressed as I am about our money.
My phone buzzes. Its Angie. Its
Patti Cassidy, she sighs. She says its
important.
I sigh back. With Patti, its always
important, I say. All right, Ill take it.
I try never to miss a chance to talk to the
press about a case, spin the story in
some way favorable to my client. Hi,
Patti, I say, my voice as sunny as I can
make it. Not an easy task. How are
things with you these days? I hear youre
up for some journalism award.
Patti skips the pleasantries, gets right
to it. Im calling to see if you want to
comment on the second geisha house.
Silence hangs between us as I try to
figure out what shes talking about.
The brownstone, in New York?
I honestly dont know what you
mean.
Your client, David Hanson, she
says. Turns out the house on Addison
Street isnt his only love nest. He has
another one, in Manhattan. And there
are, like, three Chinese girls living
there.
Jesus Christ. I say it before I can
stop myself. No! Wait.
Patti laughs. Id rather just quote
your expletive.
I take a deep breath, try to lower my
blood pressure. Look, Im sorry. Can
you just give me a little more
background?
Sure. About two weeks ago, we get
an anonymous tip that your clients
Philadelphia pied--terre is one of a
pair. That he has a second house in New
York. The caller even gives the address.
So we do a little research and find out
the house is held in the name of HD
Holdings, the first link in a chain of
companies ultimately ending with
Hanson World Industries. A couple of
reporters stake out the building, watch
who goes in and out. They see not one
but three young women living in the
house, all young and Asian and quite
beautiful. Im sure they cant wait for
their lord and master to show up.
My ears perk up. So he hasnt been
seen there? At the house?
Come on, Mick. A house full of
Asian girls? Owned by the same
corporate fronts your client used to buy
the place in Philly?
My head is bent low. My eyes closed.
Im rubbing my forehead with my left
hand as I hold the receiver with my right.
Im irked at the delight Patti is obviously
taking in telling me this. But my ire at the
reporter is nothing compared to the rage
building inside me at David Hanson.
Still, I remind myself I am a
professional, with a job to do. And part
of that job is damage control. So I give
Patti my statement: Here it is, Patti.
This latest story, undoubtedly leaked to
the press by the DAs office, serves only
to betray the prosecutors mission to
sidetrack the public and poison potential
jurors with gossip and innuendo in the
hopes of distracting everyone from the
only real issue in this case: my clients
actual guilt or innocence. It seems that a
few sorry members of law enforcement,
and the press as well, have forgotten that
every citizen is innocent until proven
guilty, and that an accused citizens right
to freedom from wrongful imprisonment
isnt to be stolen from him for the sake
of selling a few newspapers.
Ouch. Sounds like we hit a nerve.
More than one.
I hang up, then dial Davids cell
number. I leave a message, tell him to
call as soon as possible. Then I dial his
home number. Marcie answers on the
second ring. After an awkward pause, I
tell her its me and ask for David.
Marcie informs me hes not home but
should be soon. Im going to drive out
there, I say. Something happened. Is
about to happen. Theres going to be
another story, about David. I need to talk
to him before it comes out. I should talk
to you, too.
Marcie asks me to tell her over the
phone. I say Id rather not. I ask if I can
bring Susan.
The more the merrier.
I feel awful for Marcie. So much bad
has happened in her life in such a short
time. The cancer. The radiation and
chemo. Then her husband is indicted for
murder. Then comes the Philadelphia
geisha-house story revealing that
Davids been cheating on Marcie for
who knows how long. And now its
about to get even worse. David isnt just
some schmuck who got caught having a
fling. Hes something else entirely: a
man who keeps women for his
enjoyment. Asian women. Marcie will
want to kill him. Or herself.
I walk into Susans office, tell her
whats happening, and ask her to drive
with me to David and Marcies house.
Ill need you there for moral support
when I tell Marcie about the place in
New York. Ill also need you there to
keep me from strangling David.
I spend the drive to the Hansons
thinking about Marcie. I first met her in
the Hamptons, where she and some
friends had rented a beach house for the
summer. David drove me up, told me
hed found a terrific girl and wanted me
to meet her. Shes the only woman Ive
ever met whos as competitive as I am,
David confided. She was also, it turned
out, striking. Tall with long, toned legs,
thick raven hair, emerald-green eyes,
high cheekbones, and flawless olive
skin.
When they were married a couple of
years later, I was a groomsman. For
several years afterward, David and
Marcie and Piper and I often got together
for dinner. We even once spent a week
vacationing on Marthas Vineyard. But
over time we drifted apart, pulled away
from one another by our very different
social circles.
The last time I saw Marcie was a few
months before Davids arrest, when
Piper and I had dinner with Pipers
parents at the country club. We crossed
paths in the lobby. Marcie was different
from the tanned and smiling athlete I first
met in the Hamptons. She was pale. Her
once-fit limbs were bone thin. Her
ample chest was gone. She had opted
against reconstructive surgery after her
mastectomy, and her blouse hung limply.
She didnt smile once. I saw in her eyes
a look that took me a while to decipher.
It wasnt just pain, though that was
certainly present. Rather, Marcies eyes
broadcast confusion. As thoughI
decidedshe simply could not
understand how this could have
happened to her, how her body, once a
powerhouse of vitality and strength,
could betray her, could decide to eat
itself alive.
 I drive past the large stone columns
framing the entrance to a quarter-mile-
long cobblestone driveway leading to
the front of the Hanson family
compound, Blackthorn. The main house
is a three-story Victorian Gothic
monstrosity constructed of large, coarse
limestone with two turrets framing the
center entrance and reaching fifteen feet
above the roofline, and squatter turrets
on each of the buildings four corners.
Built in 1915, the house in many ways
typifies the notion of luxury held by
many turn-of-the-century, self-made
American millionaires like Linwood
Hanson.
This place makes me feel cold just
looking at it, Susan says as we walk
toward the entrance.
Marcie opens the door before we
knock. She doesnt look anything like the
sickly, haunted creature Id last seen.
Her face is pink, her skin supple. Her
eyes are bright and alert. And though I
try to avoid looking directly at it, her
bosom is large. She must have had the
reconstructive surgery, after all.
Marcie sees me scrutinizing her and
says, Im not quite the six-million-
dollar woman, but I do feel that Ive
been rebuilt from the ground up.
Once were inside, I lean in and kiss
her cheek. Susan says something about
how lovely the house is.
All the warmth of a prison, Marcie
answers, which it is, literally, in a
way. I already know the history but
listen as Marcie explains to Susan.
Davids great-grandfather bought most
of the stone for the exterior from a
company that had been storing it since
the 1860s. The stone had been harvested
from a demolished Civil Warera prison
in upstate New York. Linwood Hanson
thought it was charming that his house
was built from prison block.
Marcie leads us to a drawing room,
and we sit on facing couches. Susan and
I look around as Marcie pours us coffee
from an ornate silver service. The room
is cavernous. The ceiling is twenty feet
above the floor. Two gigantic
candelabras sit on either end of a white-
marble fireplace big enough to garage a
Mini Cooper. The walls are fitted out in
polished, dark woods. Crimson-hued
Orientals overlay the parquet flooring.
Susan comments again on how lovely
everything is.
Marcie ignores her. So, Mick. What
is it you need to tell us?
I exchange glances with Susan, bite
my lower lip, and inhale. Theres a
story thats going to come out, I start.
Not a good one. I wanted to give David
a heads-up, and you.
More women? Marcie asks matter-
of-factly.
Uh . . .
Its all right. David and I have had
some long talks since this all started.
Some very long talks. I know whats out
there. I think I do anyway.
Okay, I say. Theres a townhouse
in Manhattan . . . I proceed to tell
Marcie about the call from Patti Cassidy.
When Im finished, Marcie smiles.
The brownstone on the Upper East
Side, she says. A lovely place, she
adds, glancing at Susan. And the three
young girls. Yes, Ive met them, and I
can tell you that theyre all very, very
sweet.
Susan and I look at each other. We
both exhale.
So its not some Asian love nest?
Susan says.
Marcie smiles. Certainly not. Not
now.
Not now?
 Not since David and I have begun
talking. Before then, of course, it had
been just thata place where David
stored his strumpets until he wanted to
play with them. But the women who are
there now are anything but playthings.
Each is a gifted musician, here on
scholarship at a top music school.
How . . . ?
It was easy. David simply told the
girls who had been living there to leave,
and he paid them a good deal of money
to do so. Then, with the help of some
prominent men in Japan and the Peoples
Republic of China, we moved in three
other girls. College girls. Who,
coincidentally, look almost identical to
the girls who had been living there
before. And although the house was
bought by Hanson World Industries, the
paperwork will show that it has been
leased, for more than three years, to the
Peoples Republic of China for use as a
home for visiting students.
The paperwork? I ask.
Backdated, naturally. Edwin will be
furious when David produces the lease.
Now Im completely lost. China?
Japan? Edwin? I spread my arms. Im
afraid all of this is going way over my
head.
Marcie smiles, takes a sip of coffee,
puts down her cup, and says, Let me
show you. She leads us to a door at the
end of a long hallway. She puts her
thumb on a square metallic box hanging
on the wall. The door unlocks and
swings opens automatically. Marcie
leads us into a space utterly different
from the rest of the house. Davids
study, she says. Though not as large as
the sitting room we have just come from,
the space is substantial, maybe twenty-
by-twenty-five feet. Behind Davids
desk, the far wall is all floor-to-ceiling
windows that showcase the view beyond
of a lush, well-ordered garden full of
flowering plants that features a pond and
a wooden footbridge. Its a Japanese
garden, Marcie says, following my
gaze. David has become a student of
ikebana, the art of Japanese flower
arranging.
Looks like your husband has fallen
in love with all things Japanese, Susan
says, looking around the room. That
sword, for example.
Its a katana, a samurai sword.
From the thirteenth century and signed by
MasamuneJapans greatest
swordsmith. David refuses to say how
he came to possess it, but I suspect a
major bribe was involved.
I move closer to the glass display
case. Beneath the sword is an
ornamental sheath. The sheath sits on
twin metal holders. The sword,
however, does not appear to be mounted
on anything; it just hangs in the air. I feel
Marcie behind me, watching me study it.
Amazing, isnt it? she says. Theres
some kind of electromagnetic field
inside the box that keeps the sword in
midair like that. The display cost a
quarter of a million dollars to set up.
Yet all Id have to do is get a bat and
smash the glass, and the sword is mine.
Marcie laughs. Youd never get out
of this room. Any damage to that case
causes the study door to lock
automatically. She follows my eyes to
the windows. That glass is several
inches thick.
Susan and I exchange glances. I
wonder if shes thinking what I am. All
this planning to protect a sword, but the
guys fool enough to get caught with his
pants down? Stupid enough to try to
clean up a murder scene?
This is interesting, Susan says,
looking at a painted kimono hanging
inside another glass case mounted on a
wall.
Its an art form called tsujigahana.
Its from the Edo period, late 1800s.
The sword and kimono are hardly the
only things Asian in Davids office. On
the third wall hang three striking silk
scrolls, each encased in glass. They
depict peonies, chrysanthemums, and
roses, with dark-blue butterflies
hovering over rich pink petals and dark
leaves. Marcie tells us they were done
in the mid-1700s by Ito Jakuchu. Like the
samurai sword, Marcie says, they are
priceless.
The furniture also is distinctively
elegantand familiar. Nakashima? I
ask. George Nakashima was a Japanese
American woodworker and architect
who became one of Americas premier
twentieth-century furniture makers. His
original work is extravagantly
expensive, when someone is willing to
part with it at all.
Nakashima, Marcie affirms.
Davids father was a personal friend,
and David and Edwin both visited him
many times in New Hope, where he had
his shop. I sometimes think that Davids
love affair with the Asian culture began
with Nakashimas art. Which brings us,
in a roundabout way, to why I decided to
share this with you.
Marcie leads Susan and me back to
the drawing room, and we all sit. Marcie
pours more coffee, and then she resumes.
It was never Davids idea to go into
law. He wanted from the outset to run
Hanson World Industries. Davids father,
however, left that mantle to Edwin. Still,
David went to work for the company
right out of law school, as you know.
And hes worked hard ever since to
break into the operations side. For a
long time, he was just beating his head
against the wall. Then, about six years
ago, things changed. By then David had
immersed himself in the cultures of
Japan and China. He was making
monthly, sometimes weekly, trips to both
countries, using his connections to
arrange private tours of the countries
museums and archaeological sites, and
to stay in the private homes of some of
the most powerful men in both nations.
David knew that, sooner or later, HWI
would have to break in to Asia in a big
waynot just to build manufacturing
plants like Apple, but to open the
Chinese market to HWIs products.
It looked likely that HWI would
begin selling some of its personal-care
products in China, but Edwin, always a
bull in a china shop, pardon the pun,
offended the Chinese. So as much as he
hated doing it, he had to ask David to
smooth things over. David flew to China
and used the networks hed already built
there to keep the deal alive. Pretty soon,
the company was selling a whole range
of products in China.
 Because of David, basically?
Marcie nods. Recently, HWI was on
the verge of cementing a joint venture
with powerful companies from both
China and Japan. It was an
unprecedented arrangement for everyone
concerned, especially HWI. And David
built it all on his relationships in the
countries. She pauses.
Edwin?
Marcie nods again. Was furious. Not
just because David was the companys
rising star, but because David was
leveraging his Asian influence to
pressure Edwin for an executive
position on the operations side of the
business. Worse yet, David had HWIs
Japanese and Chinese partners
pressuring Edwin as well. Edwin
finally, grudgingly, agreed, and David
was about to be named President of
HWI-Asia, making him second-in-
command in the company to Edwin, and
Edwins heir apparent.
Marcie takes a sip of her coffee.
And then . . . Her eyes darken. She
puts down her cup and saucer. And then
Jennifer Yamura. David is disgraced and
forced to resign as chief legal counsel at
HWI. His hopes to take a seat in the
companys operational pantheon are
dashed. And Edwins as happy as a pig
in shit.
Susan leans forward. Because?
Because Edwin and David hate each
other.
 Im nodding. It must have galled
Edwin to no end to have the Japanese
and Chinese business partners breathing
down his neck about David.
So, says Susan, its possible that
Edwin leaked the story about the house
in New York.
Marcie purses her lips. I wouldnt
put it past him.
I consider everything Marcie has told
us. How solid is the paper trail backing
the fake lease?
Solid. And Davids Chinese backers
agreed up front to give affidavits, if
necessary. Same with the girls, of
course.
I smile. Im going to make Patti
Cassidy sweat for this one. Ill bring
Devlin Walker into it, too.
Abruptly, Marcie stands, making
clear that our business is concluded. I
infer from this that David wont be
coming home anytime soon, contrary to
what she told me over the phone. She
escorts us to the front door and opens it.
Susan thanks Marcie for meeting with us,
and I do, too. Then in the doorway, a
thought strikes me. I turn back to face
Marcie.
Did Edwin know about the house on
Addison Street before Davids arrest?
David told me he didnt. But Edwin
is enormously clever, and he
micromanages the company, keeps his
hands on everything, his nose in
everything. So who can say? Marcie
waits a few seconds. Then she looks me
in the eyes and says, David is not going
to be convicted.
I hesitate. Well, of course Ill do
everything in my power to
Youre not hearing me. David is not
going to be convicted. Period. And
youll do whatever it takes to make sure
of it. Whatever it takes. Do you
understand me?
I hold Marcies stare, then nod
slightly and turn away. I catch up to
Susan at the car. We pull out of the
driveway and head back into the city. As
we cruise down the Schuylkill, Susan
turns to me. What that hell was all
that?
I exhale. That was a wife doing her
best to defend her husband.
After a while, Susan says, Did you
notice that she didnt ask the question?
I dont have to ask which question
Susans is referring to. She means the
question. Whether David is guilty.
Whether he killed Jennifer Yamura.
She didnt ask, Susan says,
because Davids told her everything.
Marcie knows hes guilty. And she
doesnt care.
Maybe . . . and maybe she does care,
or did in the beginning, but now things
are working out. Between them, I mean.
To hear Marcie describe things, it almost
sounds like the murder charges have
brought them closer together.
Murder as the foundation of a happy
marriage . . . , Susan intones. I wonder
what Dr. Phil would say about that.
Not murder. Forgiveness.
Or, given that Marcie ordered me to
do whatever it will take to get David off
the hook, maybe something else. Like
two serpents seeing each other for the
first time and liking that they are of the
same sort.
I wonder what would have happened
with my marriage if I had been arrested
instead of David. Would Piper have
circled the wagons with me to fight off
the attack, as Marcie seems to be doing
with David? Or would she have led the
lynch mob herself?
 15
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER
27

David and I sit side by side at the

defense table. I look to my left, where
Devlin Walker huddles with a junior
ADA. They are reading the brief that we
just handed them. Behind us, a crowd
fills the courtroom. Vaughn has alerted
the press that something big is about to
happen, and the piranhas are present en
masse. Among them is Patti Cassidy,
whom I have subpoenaed, and who casts
me an angry look. In the seats just behind
David and me are Marcie Hanson and,
to her left, three young Asian women. To
Marcies right is a stern-looking Chinese
gentleman in his fifties, a member of the
diplomatic staff of the Chinese
consulate. Marcie marched her
entourage into the courtroom so they
could take their seats fifteen minutes
ago, then promptly presented me with a
cheat sheet that set forth her witnesses
names and the lies to which theyre
prepared to testify.
The first thing I did when I got back
to the office after visiting Marcie
Hanson was to tell Vaughn to call the
clerks office and request an emergency
hearing. We received a call back in two
hours informing us that William Henry
had been assigned to the case.
Before he was elevated to the bench,
William Henry served two decades in
the public defenders office. He is a
believer that a criminal defendants right
to a fair trial is the keystone of liberty.
Judge Henry does not abide
prosecutorial hijinks in any form. In his
view, any effort by the government to
distract attention from its high burden, or
to give itself a leg up, is intolerable. His
Honor, no doubt, takes an especially dim
view of pretrial leaks by the district
attorney.
I look back at the prosecution table
and find Devlin Walker glaring at me,
seething. He gets it now. Im going to
blame the DAs office for leaking the
story about the second geisha house in
New York to Patti Cassidy. What Devlin
doesnt know yet is that the courtroom is
filled with witnesses prepared to testify
that the story was complete nonsense, a
fact that will make Judge Henry doubly
angry. Devlin slowly shakes his head no,
silently telling me not to do this.
Dont you dare. Or Ill make you
pay.
The door to the robing room opens. In
a whoosh, Judge Henry is on the bench.
His face is red, his lips pursed. He looks
around the courtroom, takes everyone in.
His gaze hangs for a long minute on Patti
Cassidy, then he turns to Devlin Walker.
The normal procedure would be for the
judge to ask me to state my position first,
then give the prosecutor his turn to reply.
But Judge Henry skips right to the fun
part. Well? he says to Devlin. Just one
word.
Devlin is taken aback, but only for a
moment. He leans forward, raises my
brief above his head, and declares,
Rubbish. Then he sits.
But Bill Henry will not be assuaged.
Not so fast, Mr. Walker. What do you
mean, rubbish? Are you telling me your
office did not leak this story to the press
to poison the potential jury pool? Are
you telling me someone else leaked it?
Who would do that, Mr. Walker? Who
besides the prosecution has anything to
gain by this type of leak?
Before Devlin has a chance to
answer, I leap to my feet. Your Honor,
the leak is only half the story. The other
half is whether theres any truth to it.
Present in this courtroom are the three
young women whose reputations have
been smeared by the story in the
Inquirer. Also here, and prepared to
testify, is Mr. Hsan Chan, who will, if he
takes the stand, tell the court that he is a
member of the Chinese Consulate
Generals office in New York, that he
knows the three young women, that they
are in this country on student visas, that
all three are studying music at a
prestigious school in New York City,
and that they are able to do so thanks to a
grant from Hanson World Industries. A
grant arranged through a program
designed by Mrs. Hanson, who is also in
the courtroom and ready to testify. One
more thing that all these young women
will attest to is that theyve never even
met David Hanson, let alone engaged
with him in any sort of a sordid
relationship.
Which reminds me . . . I withdraw
a civil complaint from my brief case and
walk it to Patti Cassidy. Mr. Hanson
and each of the three young women are
suing the Inquirer, and Ms. Cassidy
personally, for defamation. Patti gasps
as I hand her the complaint. The
spectators, most of whom are Pattis
fellow newsmen, fall quiet as a crypt,
undoubtedly thinking, There but for the
grace of God go I.
Now its Devlins turn to leap to his
feet. My office had no involvement in
this!
His outburst triggers loud murmuring
throughout the courtroom; Judge Henry
slams his gavel to reestablish order. He
closes his eyes, rests the head of the
gavel against his temple, pauses to
gather himself, make sure he gets this
right. Opening his eyes, the judge says
matter-of-factly, There will be no
witness testimony. There is no need. Im
going to grant the defendants request for
a gag order. Neither side, from this point
on, is to say or leak anything publicly
about this case. And it works both ways.
If something detrimental to the defense
finds its way into the wind, Ill know it
came from the prosecution. If something
detrimental to the prosecution gets out,
Ill know it came from the defense. In
either case, one of you will find yourself
in contempt of court. Am I understood?
I nod and say, Thank you, Your
Honor. Devlins nod is almost
imperceptible. He thanks no one.
And the hearing is over.
I leave the courtroom to find Marcie
Hanson holding her own mini press
conference in the hallway. Marcie
chastises the Inquirer for unjustly
crucifying her husband by twisting a
wonderful program designed to help
young musicians into a sordid and,
quite frankly, racist attack that
blemished not only her husbands
reputation but that of three utterly
innocent young women. Im looking
forward to the newspapers quick and
unqualified apology for this travesty,
she continues. Marcie also has some
choice words for the coward who
tipped off Patti Cassidy to the New York
house. Youre curled up in your hole,
safe in the cloak of anonymity. You may
think that what you did was clever, but
all you accomplishedall that you
almost accomplishedwas to further
the efforts of those who want to deny my
husband his right to the fair trial at
which he can clear his name. He will
rebuild the life that has been so unjustly
shattered by the false charges brought
against him by the DAs office.
I smile and shake my head. One
broadcast-worthy sound bite after
another. All delivered with flawless
grammar and the indignant tone of a
woman defending the man she believes
in. I am, at this point, quite frankly awed
by how welland how quickly
Marcie and David pulled this all
together.
Not bad, eh? Its David, now
standing beside me. Its certainly taken
the wind out of Patti Cassidys sails, he
adds, nodding toward the stricken
reporter standing at the back of the pack,
the blood drained from her face and lips.
 I take Davids arm and guide him
down the hall a bit, away from the
crowd.
When we were out at your house
yesterday, Marcie let Susan in on the
enmity between you and Edwin. Susan
asked if Edwin might even have been the
person who tipped off Patti Cassidy, and
Marcie said she wouldnt put it past
him.
David looks away, watches Marcie
address the reporters for a moment, then
returns his gaze to me.
Edwin. He spits out his half
brothers name. He couldnt have found
out about the brownstone any more than
he could have discovered the house on
Addison Street, which is a whole lot
closer.
I take a minute, let Davids words
sink in. My eyes widen. Edwin didnt
leak the New York house to the Inquirer.
You did. You and Marcie. The two of
you orchestrated this whole thing. To
poison the well, set up Devlin, make it
look to the potential jury pool like
Walkers not playing by the rules, like
hes out to get you any way he can,
whether you did something wrong or
not.
David smiles. Most of the credit
belongs to Marcie. Shes quite the
strategist, it turns out.
Jesus, David. Dont you realize if
the reporters dig deep enough, theyll
eventually find something that leads them
to the truth? If it comes out that the
brownstone was originally a fuck pad
after all, and that your three musicians
are merely part of a massive cover-up,
you might as well go ahead and stick the
needle in your own arm.
Davids no longer smiling. Thats
why its important to get that apology
from the Inquirer and close out the
defamation suit as soon as possible.
Once the threat of a lawsuit is removed,
the paper will lose its will to dig up new
information to defend itself.
Youve thought this all out, have
you?
Figuring out how to extricate myself
from this clusterfuck is pretty much all I
think about.
 David and I face off for a long
moment, before I say, No more tricks.
Not without running it by me first.
Fury flashes across Davids eyes. But
he quells it quickly and blesses me with
a broad smile. Then he crosses his heart,
winks, and walks away.

An hour later, Im back in the office. Its

just after noon, and the details of the
hearing are all over the midday news
shows. The TV reporters, happy to feast
on their own, cap their recounts with the
fact that I have brought a civil
defamation suit against the Inquirer and
reporter Patti Cassidy, who is shown
fast-walking away from the Criminal
Justice Center after the hearing.
Now she knows how it feels,
Vaughn says as we watch the story on the
big flat screen in my office. Wheres
Susan?
Angie and I share a glance. Lunch.
When I originally told Susan about
the plan to bring in the phony witnesses,
she fought me on the petition. After I
decided to move ahead with it anyway,
she refused to accompany me to the
hearing. When I told her afterward that
Marcie and David had leaked the story
themselves, she blew up.
This isnt ethical! Youre helping
David and Marcie perpetrate a fraud on
the public. Worse yet, you personally
misled the court.
I didnt say anything that was
untrue, I argued. I simply filed a
petition stating that a story averse to my
clients right to a fair trial had been
leaked and asked for a gag order. I made
no representations myself.
Before she left my office, Susan
stopped and told me, For some reason,
youve decided to let David and Marcie
lead you down the primrose path. You
can do whatever you want. Just
understand, I will not walk that road
with you. Im not going to cochair this
case unless you agree to play it straight.
Im not losing my ticket for anyone, let
alone David Hanson and that scheming
wife of his. Susan pivoted back toward
the doorway and saw Angie standing
there. Im taking an early lunch, she
said as she stormed out of the office.
Now, watching the news with Vaughn
and Angie, my discomfort over Susans
rebuke and my anger at David have
dissipated. I am flush with victory and
feeling grand.
How about the three of us go to
lunch? I ask. Celebrate the win.

Two hours later, Vaughn, Angie, and I

return to the office, stuffed from our
meals and lightheaded from our drinks. I
putter around my office, open my snail
mail, respond to congratulatory e-mails
from some fellow defense attorneys who
happened to catch the midday news.
Its just before five, and Im about to
log off my computer when Angie walks
in and hands me a padded envelope.
I forgot to give you this, she says.
Katrina gave it to me when we came
back from lunch. She said an old lady
dropped it off, claimed it was personal
and confidential, for your eyes only.
Let me guess, I say. My sons in
jail, and heres the evidence that proves
he didnt do it.
See you tomorrow, Angie says, and
walks out.
I hold the envelope in my hand for a
minute, wondering whether I should toss
it in the trash or go through the pointless
step of watching it first. Im about to
leave anyway, so I think, Why not? I tear
open the envelope. Inside are an
envelope and a DVD. I put the DVD into
my computer, and a video appears on the
screen. I recognize the scene. Its
Jennifer Yamuras backyard and the back
of her house. Theres a date on the video
screen: May 31 of this year. The day of
Jennifer Yamuras murder.
Oh, Christ.
I quickly stop the video, get up, close
the door to my office, then sit back down
and restart it. A figure appears on the
screen at time stamp 11:50 a.m. A man.
He appears in the alley on the left of the
screen, from the east. He walks directly
to Jennifer Yamuras kitchen door,
knocks. Jennifer appears after a few
seconds, opens the door for him. Before
the man enters, he looks back, and I see
his face.
I am thunderstruck.
By the time the video finishes, I am
shaking. Its all I can do to keep from
throwing up. I get off my chair, pace the
office. This is a disaster. The atomic
bomb.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Think, I tell myself. Then I spy the
envelope on my desk and reach for it.
Theres a piece of paper inside. A single
sentence is scrawled:

I will contact you soon.

 I realize it instantly: blackmail. Thats
how this is going to play out. I sit down
at my desk and replay the video. I
understand now. A lot of things that
didnt add up before about Yamuras
death now make perfect sense.
I secure the DVD in my office safe. I
move to my desk, stand beside it. I lean
over, my hand clutching the corner of the
desk. I take deep breaths until my heart
slows. Then I sit down, pull my
wastebasket out from under my desk, and
throw up. When Im finished, I turn my
chair around and face the window. I
think back to my mothers death in our
kitchen, how I envisioned myself flying
out the window to escape the grief that
had dragged my father to the floor. I
recall my fathers funeral, and how I
mentally sequestered myself by fleeing
to another burial, a strangers casket on
the other side of the graveyard. The two
most horrific episodes of my life, and I
found a way to remove myself from the
pain that racked everyone else. Looking
out my twentieth-floor window now, I
see City Hall and, past it, the streets and
buildings below Broad, leading
eastward to the Delaware. I wish more
than anything that I could fly where my
eyes and my mind are taking me now
into New Jersey and across it, to the
Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Instead, I stay at the office late into
the night, mentally navigating the maze,
trying to figure a way out of this for
David Hanson, for everyone who
matters to me. When Im finished, I
realize there is only one path to safety, a
perilous route where the decisions to
take the final, essential turns will have to
be left up to others. A journey whose
first step must be taken by someone else:
David Hanson. Whatever amount the
blackmailer demands, David Hanson
mustabsolutely mustpay it. Or all is
lost.
I wonder what David will say to me
when I show him the video. Will he
invent some story to exonerate himself?
Or will he break and admit the truth?
 16
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

An awful night. I dont get home until

after midnight. The house is dark, Piper
and Gabby both long in bed. I sit behind
my office desk in the dark for close to an
hour, the only sounds my own breathing
and the rhythmic ticking of the antique
grandfather clock in the living room. I
mentally relive the day, amazed and
horrified at how the world can turn on a
dime. I ponder the plan Ive constructed
to save everyone from the fallout of
Jennifer Yamuras death. I analyze it,
tear apart and rebuild it, over and over.
What could go wrong? How can I
guarantee nothing will? The answers are
always the same: a million things. Or
nothing.
Wearily, I make my way up the stairs,
take off my clothes, climb into bed
beside Piper. I toss and turn and count
the hours on the alarm clock, minute by
minute by minute. Sometime after 4:30, I
fall asleep.

The alarm sounds at six. I grumble,

reach over, and push the buttons on the
top of the clock until the noise stops. I
turn away and pull the covers over my
head, but its no useI cant fall back to
sleep. Moping my way to the bathroom, I
relieve myself and climb directly into
the shower, stand under the hot water for
a long time, head bent, eyes closed.
Its close to seven when I walk into
the kitchen. Piper is standing by the
counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Gabby is sitting at the table, eating Froot
Loops.
I suppose I should say
congratulations, Piper says.
I look at her, not comprehending for a
moment. Then I realize shes
congratulating me about my victory at the
gag-order hearingnow the farthest
thing from my mind.
Thanks, I say halfheartedly,
changing places with Piper at the coffee
machine.
Jeez, whats wrong with you? And
why were you so late?
I sigh. I was at the office. I had to get
something finished.
Why didnt you just finish it here?
My hackles go up instantly. The
home-versus-office battle has been bitter
ground for Piper and me for years. Its
the main reason Piper built out my home
office for me, insisted I have remote
computer access to my work server. It
was a birthday gift and, in fairness, quite
a grand one. The problem, as I explained
to Piper more than once, is that, as one
of the owners of the firm, I have to be
physically present at my office
downtown to lead my troops.
Mick. Did you hear me? I need you
to take Gabby to school this morning.
Im meeting Julie for an early yoga
class.
Huh? Yeah, I heard. Thats fine. Id
love to take Gabby to school, I say,
mustering enthusiasm that I dont
actually feel for anything right now. I
wink at Gabby as I say it. She smiles
perfunctorily, the regent acknowledging
her serf, then returns to her cereal.

Two hours later I walk into the firms

reception area. Tommys there, talking to
Angela. I interrupt them, tell Tommy,
We have a problem. Come on. I pass
Tommy and lead him into my office.
Close the door, I say. A minute later
Im sitting behind my desk, and Tommy
is across from me in one of the guest
chairs.
Whats up?
I take a breath. Theres a tape.
Tommy looks at me, not understanding.
Yesterday, someonean old woman,
according to Katrinadropped off a
videotape for my eyes only. It shows the
back of Jennifer Yamuras house on the
day of her murder. It shows who went in
and out that day.
Tommys mouth opens, and I see his
hands tighten on the arms of the chair. He
looks at me, stone-faced. He waits a
beat, then asks, Is there something you
want to say to me?
No. Im nowhere near ready to talk
about whats on the tape.
Tommy glances out the window
behind me, then looks back at me. So.
Now what?
Now? I make damn sure David
Hanson pays whoever delivered that
tape whatever they want to make sure the
video never sees the light of day.
Its blackmail?
What else?
Tommy doesnt answer, and we stare
at each other. I guess thats it, then. He
slaps the arms of the chair, stands, and
leaves without looking back.
Close the door, I say. Tommy
hesitates, then closes the door a little too
hard.
I stare at the door, resigned to a fact
Id come to terms with a long time ago:
that I no longer understand my brother
and probably never will again.
When Tommy came home after his
stint in prison for beating up the cop in
Florida, he didnt seem as restless as
hed been. It was almost as though going
to jail had calmed him in some way.
Hed settled back into the lumberyard
job of his youth, making decent money
and even dating Rachel, a nice young
woman from Lancaster. For two years
everything went smoothly. There was
even talk of a wedding.
Then one day I was sitting behind my
desk at the DAs office when I got a
phone call from her. She asked if Tommy
was visiting me in Philadelphia. She
hadnt seen him in almost two weeks.
Neither had his bosses at the
lumberyard.
I drove to Lancaster, got into
Tommys apartment, and quickly
determined he hadnt been home in a
long while. There was little I could do
but wait. Finally, Tommy turned up in
jail in Camden, New Jersey. It turned out
hed painted a strip clubs parking lot
with the blood of two other patrons. One
of the victims was the nephew of the
towns mayor.
 As I would only learn years later, the
guys Tommy pulverized had been in the
process of raping a woman in their van.
Tommy passed by, heard what was going
on, opened the vans side doorthe
creeps hadnt even bothered to lock it
and gone to town on the assailants.
Things turned out worse than they had
to for Tommy. In sentencing him, the
judge never took into account that
Tommy had prevented a rape because
Tommy never said a word about it. The
rape victim ran before the police arrived
and never came forward about what
happened. Tommy himself never
explained why he attacked the two men.
He wouldnt even talk to the lawyer the
court appointed to represent him. Or me,
for that matter. He just sat back and let it
all come crashing down on his head.
The sentence was five years. Tommy
took the first plea the prosecutor shat on
him. He left the courtroom as hed
entered that day, in an orange jumpsuit,
leg manacles, and handcuffs. He glanced
back at me only once, just before they
took him out the door. It took me the
whole drive back to Philadelphia to
figure out the look in his eyes, but I
eventually realized what it was: relief.
Like hed gotten what he deserved. I
paced my apartment the rest of the day,
alternately crying and raging at my
brother.
For what? Id shouted. What do
you think you did that you deserve this?
 Im pulled from my thoughts by the
phone. Its Angie. Mr. Ginsbergs on
line one.
Alexander Ginsberg is the most
respected and feared attorney in the city,
if not the state. Fortune 500
corporations, CEOs, mafia bosses,
politiciansthe rich and powerful of
every stripe and callingscramble to
hire Ginsberg when the carpet is pulled
out from under them. After the hearing
over the leak to the Inquirer about the
second geisha house, Id hired him to
sue the paper for libel, telling Ginsberg
that David Hanson wasnt looking for
money but for a public apology.
Ive been on the phone all morning
with the Inquirers lawyer, Ginsberg
tells me. The paper is ready to print a
front page mea culpa, so long as we
promise not to file a lawsuit and
bankrupt it.
You mean bankrupt it again, I say.
The Inquirers financial problems have
plagued it for years, even causing the
paper to seek bankruptcy protection once
before. How soon will they run the
apology?
Their lawyer says tomorrow, if
David will sign a release before then.
Ive already drafted something. Ill send
it over, let you look at it. Ginsberg
pauses, then says, You know, the paper
fired Patti Cassidy . . .
I thank Ginsberg and do some
paperwork, make some calls. After an
hour, I leave my office, tell Angie on the
way out that Im heading over to the food
court at Liberty Place to pick up a
sandwich from Bains Deli. Back in a
few, I say.
Leaving by the Market Street
entrance, I turn right toward Sixteenth
Street and see the preacher on the
corner. Hes there every day, railing
against adultery, alcohol, Congress, the
Internet, sexting, and every other form of
human folly that makes its way into the
media. Today, though, hes not shouting.
Hes engaged in conversation with an
older woman. I am about to walk by
them when the woman turns and looks at
me. Shes about five foot five. Her hair
is dyed yellow, her eyes icy blue. Her
face has the pallor of someone not used
to the sun.
She steps aside, then walks alongside
me to the corner, where we stop. You
should listen to what this man says,
Mr. Lawyer, she says in a distinct
accent. Russian or Eastern Bloc, I guess.
I stop and stare at her.
How does she know Im a lawyer?
Everybody thinking only of
themselves these days. Police selling
drugs, husbands cheating on their wives,
people killing each other. And everyone
wants to get rich, she says.
And then it hits me: shes the older
woman who delivered the tape to my
office yesterday.
I open my mouth, but I dont know
what to say.
Ill be in Rittenhouse Square, the
center, in an hour, she says, then turns
and walks across Market Street.

Half an hour later, I walk past the spot

where I happened upon Piper the day of
Jennifer Yamuras murder. A hundred
years ago, it seems. The sidewalk is
more crowded now than it was that day.
I look at the faces of the people passing
me in the other direction, hoping I dont
recognize anyone. Entering Rittenhouse
Park, I become conscious of the weather
for the first time. Its warm for fall. The
leaves are still green and thick on the
trees. The sky is bright blue. A gentle,
cooling breeze blows from the
northwest. Its beautiful outside, and I
think to myself how wrong it is that the
weather can be so lovely on such an
awful day.
I walk the diagonal path that crosses
the park. The benches on either side of
me are filled with people, mostly
younger, eating lunch, sandwiches in
opened deli paper on their laps. Talking,
I suppose, about work or lovers or the
latest movie. I see the old woman ahead,
sitting on a concrete bench right in the
center of the park. Her eyes lock on
mine. The faintest trace of a smile forms
on her lips. I sit down next to her. We sit
silently until she decides to speak.
 You think hes crazy?
I look at the old woman, confused.
The preacher in front of your
buildingdo you think hes insane?
Because he stands there giving speeches
that everyone ignores.
Maybe were all insane for ignoring
him.
The old woman smiles.
Good point. Then her smile
disappears.
The video . . . is very interesting,
dont you think? Yes, Im sure you do,
she answers for me in her thick Eastern
European accent. A very interesting
young woman, my neighbor. Very
attractive. Very popular with the men.
So apparently the woman lives in one
of the buildings across the alley from
Yamuras house, on Pine Street.
Is that why you installed the
camera?
The old woman laughs. Hardly. No,
you can thank the Philadelphia Police
Department for my cameras,
Mr. McFarland.
You have me at a disadvantage, I
say, causing the woman to chuckle again.
Yes, I guess so. Big disadvantage.
I mean that you know my name, and I
dont know yours. Will you share that
with me?
The old woman looks up at me.
Anna Biernacki. Anna Groszek, ever
since I married my worthless ex-
husband. We both came from Poland.
His idea, my genius husband, that we
come here, to America. He tells me, We
go to the United States, we work hard,
we get rich, we come home, live the
good life. I say okay. So we come to
America, and I work hard while he gets
drunk. Ten years later, Solidarity brings
democracy to Poland, and my husband
decides its a good time to return home
by himself. I dont hear anything from
him for months, but a friend calls me
from my city of Poznan. She says
Emeryk told everybody I am dead.
Married Agneszka Walczak. Six years
older than Emeryk and the face of a cow.
But her father is wealthy and old. My
husband, hes done well for himself.
Anna pauses, then spits out his name.
Emeryk.
I let her stew for a minute, then bring
her back to why were here. So . . . you
made a tape.
Anna Groszeks eyes narrow. My
security camera makes the tape. When
my husband leaves, I start my own
cleaning company. I hire four girls to
work for me, all from Poland. I put
flyers in doors where the wealthy people
live. I make sure my girls work hard, do
a good job. Word of mouth, and I have
more business than I can handle. So I
hire more girls, and more again. Over
the years, I save my money. I buy a big
house. Four stories. A dump. So I put in
new plumbing, new electric, new roof,
new kitchen, bathrooms. Good carpet,
expensive drapes. Its very nice.
On Pine Street, this house?
Anna glances at me, annoyed, but
doesnt deny it. Two years ago, I am
robbed. Thieves break in through the
back door, take all my sterling silver. A
hundred years old. My grandmothers. I
bring it over from Poland. They also
take a pendant my mother gave me when
I was sixteen. Anna shakes her head,
then continues. So I call the police.
After a very long time, one policeman
shows up at my house. He takes a
statement, tells me to call my insurance
company. And thats it. I never hear
nothing more from the police. The next
month, I am robbed again. I come home
and my TV is gone. I go upstairs, where
the rest of my jewelry is. It should be
there because after last robbery I buy
heavy safe and hide it in the closet.
Except now I find the safe is gone, too!
So. Another call to the police.
Another long wait. The same policeman
shows up and takes a statement. I ask
him what has been done on the first
robbery. He looks at me like Im crazy.
He says they almost never arrest
someone for burglary because the
burglars come when no ones home to
see them. He says they cant arrest
someone if they dont know what he
looks like. Thats when I know I am
going to have to do police job for them. I
buy cameras for the backyard. Good
ones, too, weatherproof, can see in
complete darkness. They come with
digital video recorder and DVD burner.
You had the cameras pointing at
Jennifer Yamuras house?
No. One camera I point into my
yard, the other in the alley. But that
second one, something hit it, lifted it a
bit, so it shows back of girls house.
Lucky for me, Anna adds, and smiles.
Then shrugs. Not so lucky for others.
Why havent you gone to the police
with the video? I know the answer
already, of course, but I have to go
through the motions.
Anna sighs. I am tired,
Mr. McFarland. And Im getting old. I
want to go home.
And you want to fly first class.
 Anna smiles. At the front of the
plane, in one of those seats you can lie
down in. And when I land, I take suite at
the City Park Residence Hotel. Call
Emeryk, talk to his bovine wife, tell her
Im back, and rich.
Your house on Pine Street must be
worth a pretty penny.
Its like Titanic, says Anna
Groszek. Underwater. I refinance to
make the repairs. Now is worth less than
balance on mortgage.
I look across the park, my eyes taking
in Rouge, the upscale restaurant on
Eighteenth Street. I say nothing more,
wait for Anna to say what shes really
here to tell me. It doesnt take long.
Three million. For the videotape.
Tell your Mr. Hanson.
What? I start to jump up but catch
myself, sit back down, look directly at
Anna Groszek. Thats crazy. Hell
never agree to that.
Anna looks back at me, her blue eyes
cold, matter-of-fact. I know all about
your client, Mr. McFarland. Hes a very
rich man. Crazy for him not to pay. I
know all about you, too, Mr. Criminal
Attorney. And that prosecutorthe one
who wears the fancy suits, wants to be
the next DA, then mayorhow happy do
you think he would be if I were to call
him instead of you? Ach. The three of
you. Moe, Larry, Curly. One, two, three.
Three million.
For the first time, I wonder whether
Anna might be slightly unhinged. But her
eyes appear lucid, and her tone couldnt
be more serious.
Still, you didnt go to the DA . . . I
study her face for confirmation.
She shrugs. He has no money.
I nod. This is a business deal to her,
pure and simple. She has an asset to sell,
and shes peddling it to the highest
bidder. David Hanson.
And what if my client says no? What
if hed rather take his chances facing that
tape than giving in to blackmail?
Anna Groszek shakes her head. I put
my faith in you. Your client will not like
the amount, but you will persuade him.
You must persuade him. You know this.
He must pay, or all is lost.
 I look down at the ground. Of course
shes right. Where will you want the
money wired?
Ha! Anna blurts loudly. Wired. I
want cash, Attorney McFarland. I want
to see the money, have it in my hands. It
will be for me to deposit it in a bank and
wire it to Poland. Then I give other copy
of video.
What assurance do I have that you
wont give a copy of the video to the
police once you get the money?
Anna Groszek stands up and looks
down at me, her icy eyes flaring. You
have my word. That is your assurance.
She turns away.
Wait, I say, standing. Where . . .
when . . . ?
 Two weeks from today, she
answers, turning back to me. Bring it to
my house. Use the front door.
And with that, Anna Groszek turns
again and walks away.
 17
MONDAY, OCTOBER 1

The following Monday, at two oclock,

Im standing by the reception desk going
over some phone calls with Angie when
Vaughn walks up.
Im ready when you are, he says. I
look at him, uncomprehending. The
Hanson case . . . its all laid out in the
war room.
Right. Good, I say. A couple of
days ago, I told Vaughn to lay the case
out on the table in the small interior
conference room that we call the war
room. I do this with every case, a
month or so before the trial. Vaughn and
I review everything in detail, figure out
the prosecutions strengths and
weaknesses. Then we turn to our case,
decide the best order to present our
witnesses and evidence, and put our own
case under a microscope. Ill be there
in a minute.
Angie watches Vaughn walk away,
then turns back to me. Do you feel all
right? You dont seem yourself. Are you
sick?
Maybe a little, I say. Change of
seasons.
Half an hour later, Im sitting in the
war room, and Vaughn is in the midst of
his presentation. The way he sees it,
Devlin Walker will open up with
Matthew Stone, the leader of the crime-
scene unit. They start by showing the
body pictures to get the jury hating
Hanson right away. Stone will also
testify that Davids hair and prints are
all over Jennifer Yamuras house. After
the CSU witness, Devlin will . . .
Vaughn talks on, but his voice fades
into the background as I stare at the
crime-scene photos. Jennifer Yamura,
faceup on the stairs. Her white cotton T-
shirt and tan shorts. The red strawberry
bruising to her knees, caused when she
crawled across the rough concrete floor.
And the blood. Everywhere. Blood on
Jennifers hair and clothes. Blood on the
steps. Blood covering the concrete block
at the bottom and all over the floor near
the steps. And, though it doesnt show in
the photos, blood leading away from the
steps on the basement floor, as revealed
by the CSUs luminol.
I now know from the video that David
was the last of the men who visited
Yamuras house that day and who
therefore had to be the one who
happened upon her after shed been
pushed down the stairs and managed to
start crawling away. He wasnt the one
who pushed her, but he was the one who
dragged her back to the steps to bleed
out. I wonder what Davids reaction was
when he found her, how much time it
took him before he decided to finish her
off. It couldnt have taken long; he was
only in the house for five minutes.
Mick? Mick?
I look up and see Vaughn staring at
me. Im sorry, I say. Can we finish
this tomorrow? I dont feel great. I think
Im coming down with something.
Vaughn says sure, no problem, but I
can tell hes wondering whats going on.
He gathers a few of the papers and
leaves the room.
I look back down at the table, reach
for the manila envelope containing the
autopsy pictures. Now I see Jennifer
Yamuras face, empty of expression,
eyes flat. The eyes of the dead. I have
seen thousands of photographs like
these. Pictures of dead men and women.
Young, middle-aged, old. Stabbed, shot,
strangled, even hacked to pieces. I long
ago became desensitized to them. Just
more evidence, to present to juries when
I was a prosecutor, to argue against once
I became a defense attorney. But the
pictures of Jennifer Yamura jar me. I
close the folder and slide it away. I
close my eyes, take deep breaths, one
after another.
Christ, this is awful. So fucking
awful.

I get home around seven. Piper is pacing

the kitchen, talking on her cell phone.
Gabby is at the table, a piece of
construction paper in front of her.
Gabbys crayon drawing is a tangle of
yellow and green and brown, with
jagged lines of black. Gabby sits with
her left elbow on the table, her head in
her hand. A familiar pose of frustration.
Dad, can you tell Mom to get off the
phone? Shes been on it forever.
I look over at Piper, who turns away
from me, then leaves the kitchen for the
deck. Ten minutes later, shes back. By
now I am sitting with Gabby, helping her
to finish her masterpiece, hearing why
each color I choose and each stroke I
make is wrong. Piper walks to the
refrigerator, pulls out a casserole dish
containing the leftover chicken souffl
from last night.
Tommy wants you to call him, she
says.
Is that who you were talking to?
Im just going to reheat this, since
you werent here last night.
What did Tommy want?
I told you, he wants you to call him.
I mean, what was he talking about
with you for so long?
She turns her back to me. Just call
him. Please. She slides the leftovers
into the oven. Closes the oven door, then
walks past the table. The timers set for
thirty minutes. Set the table just for you
and Gabby. Im going upstairs. Im not
hungry.
Gabby glances at me and purses her
lips, then resumes drawing. I dont
want chicken again, she tells me. Can
you make spaghetti instead?
I muss her thick, black hair. Sure,
why not?
I start to stand, and Gabrielle asks
me, Daddy, why does Mommy cry all
the time?
Im taken aback but try not to show it.
I sit back down. What do you mean, all
the time?
Last night. Mommy made me go to
bed early, and I heard her crying in your
room.
Well, maybe her tummy hurt.
The night before, too.
I look down, try to process what my
daughter is telling me.
 No, honey. Mommys just not feeling
well, thats all. Shell be better soon.
But will she? Piper knows more,
much more, than shes told me. And in
the end its all going to come out.
Daddy? Daddy? I hear Gabbys
voice in the distance and refocus my
attention on her.
Whats the matter, sweetheart? I
ask.
Are you sick like Mommy?
No, why?
Because now youre crying, too.
It startles me. But shes right. Tears
are sliding down the side of my face.
An hour or so later, Gabby has been
fed, and shes planted in front of the
television watching one of her favorite
videos. I lift my iPhone from the kitchen
counter and tell Siri to call Tommy. He
answers in just two rings.
Whats up? I ask. Piper says you
want to talk to me.
I want us to go see Mom and Dad.
Tommy and I have a tradition of visiting
our parents graves every year, usually
on Fathers Day. We didnt make it this
year because I was so wrapped up in the
Hanson case.
Sure, I say. As soon as the Hanson
trial is over, we can
I dont want to wait, Tommy
interrupts me. Lets go this weekend.
Tommy, Im getting ready for the
trial. I cant just . . . I stop in
midsentence. All right. Saturday
morning. Ill pick you up; well drive
together.
If its all the same, Im going to ride
my bike, Tommy says, referring to his
beloved Harley.
No problem. Ill see you at the
cemetery. Hows ten oclock sound?
Tommy says thatll be fine.
Hey . . . , I say before hanging up.
Whats going on with Piper? Gabby just
told me she cries all the time.
Theres silence on the other end of the
line.
And what gives with the two of you?
I feel like youre both keeping something
from me, and I dont like it.
Tommy pauses. Were helping each
other through some things.
 What things?
Another pause. Ill see you
Saturday.
I dont like secrets.
But the phones gone dead.
 18
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER
3

Its just after four in the afternoon.

Vaughn and I are in the war room,
finishing up our strategy session on the
Hanson case. The table is cluttered with
files, legal pads, photographs; the trash
can overfilled with the remains of the
lunch we ordered in from Marathon
Grill. In the far corners of the room
stand two aluminum easels supporting
thirty-six-by-forty-two-inch pads of
paper, on which are scribbled in black
marker the names of each sides
potential witnesses. For the prosecution:
arresting officers Tim Kujowski and
Nicholas Pancetti; John Tredesco, lead
detective; Ari Weintraub, medical
examiner; Matthew Stone, CSU; Barbara
King, Davids secretary; Albert Mays,
manager of Davids garage.
For the defense, Ive written the name
Lonnie Gorman, a twice-convicted
second-story man recently arrested for a
burglary just two blocks from Jennifer
Yamuras house. David Hansons name
is also listed on the boardwith a big
question mark next to it. Finally, though
its doubtful I could compel testimony by
any of them, Ive listed every one of the
seventeen officers of the Thirteenth and
Fifteenth Districts the grand jury
recommended be charged, along with
Lawrence Washington and Terrance
Johnson, the two surviving officers who
testified before the grand jury in return
for immunity.
Vaughn and I go around and around
about our defense. Weve agreed that we
must present a plausible alternative to
David Hanson as the murderer of
Jennifer Yamura. We have two choices.
On the one hand, Jennifers missing
laptop, iPhone, watch, and money
support the argument that she was killed
as part of a robbery. Thats where
Lonnie Gorman comes in. On the other
hand, we have the grand-jury angle. The
crooked cops clearly had a motive to
kill her. And in slaying Stanley Lipinski,
whod turned states evidence against
them, we know at least one bad cop was
willing to take a life.
Vaughn and I argue back and forth for
a while about which of our two
alternative-killer theories to press. We
could offer both theories up to the jury,
let them bite on whichever seems the
more appetizing. But then we would lose
the force of conviction, the persuasive
power carried by the message that this is
what we believe.
I stand up, walk to the credenza, lift a
bottle of Fiji water from a silver serving
tray. Lets turn to David, I say.
Yes, lets, says Susan, whos
appeared in the doorway. What are we
going to say about the fact that Hanson
stayed in the house for who knows how
many hours with the bloody, murdered
body of his lover? How do we address
the coldness of the soul of a man who
could do that?
Dissociative state, I answer
immediately. A person of normal
mental health like David Hanson
happens upon the murdered body of his
girlfriend. Hes desperate not to have
their affair revealed and irrationally
latches onto the hope that he can clean
up the house, remove all traces of
himself. But hes never seen a murder
victim before, let alone the body of
someone hes had an intimate
relationship with. So his mind splits.
The part of his consciousness that holds
his humanityhis compassion, his love,
his moralitynumbs itself completely,
while the other part of himhis
practical side, the lizard braintakes
over and starts cleaning.
Susan smirks. I dont think theyll
buy it, not with David. I think the jury is
going to see him as a cold fish. A rich,
calculating prick perfectly willing to do
whatever it takes to protect himself.
Which brings us, Vaughn says, to
the big question. Do we try to change the
jurys view of David by putting him on
the stand? Let him talk to the jury, look
in their eyes, and tell them he didnt do
it?
Now that I know David had to be the
one who dragged Jennifer back to the
stairs to die, I cant ethically put him on
the stand to perjure himself by denying
his involvement. Not that ethics would
stop me. Indeed, as Ive charted it out in
my head, my literally criminal defense
of David Hanson will necessitate a
heaping dose of perjury. But I cant
share that with Vaughn or Susan, or
anyone. Not yet.
Think about it, Vaughn continues.
We could have David testify about
sponsoring those three foreign musicians
in New York. Humanize him.
Susan flinches at the idea of
perpetuating that sham.
If we put him on the stand, I say,
hes going to have to tell the jury where
he was.
And his fairy tale about the long
walk isnt going to fly, adds Susan.
Which brings me to what I think the big
question is. If David didnt kill Yamura,
where was he, really, at the time she was
murdered? What could he have been
doing that is so terrible he wouldnt
disclose it to save himself from a murder
conviction?
Even if there comes a point when we
want David to disclose his alibi, we
have a Rule 567 problem, Vaughn says.
Hes referring to the rule of criminal
procedure that requires the defendant to
notify the court and prosecutor within
thirty days after the arraignment of the
defendants intent to offer an alibi
defense, specifying the details as to
where the defendant claims he was and
whom he claims he was with. That
window, of course, has come and gone.
So were in agreement, I say. We
keep David off the stand if at all
possible. I look at Vaughn and Susan,
and both nod. Which brings us to heart
of the matter. Reasonable doubt. Does
the prosecution have enough to convict?
Lets start with the evidence of motive.
There is none. Sure, Devlin can
speculate that David and Jennifer had a
falling-out. But thats all it will be:
speculation. And Davids prints and hair
and DNA being all over the house? Of
course they were, he owned the place
and had been there a hundred times. And
as for David getting caught in the house,
it was more than nine hours after the
murder. Walker hasnt identified a single
eyewitness who can put David there at
the time of the crime. Bottom line is that
the prosecution may have the goods to
make the jury pretty sure David killed
Yamura. But it doesnt have the evidence
to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.
Nice closing, Mick, Susan says.
But David is tainted in the eyes of the
jury pool, the whole city. Pretty sure
may be enough for a conviction in this
case.
Okay. I think weve done enough for
today, I say, ignoring her take. Nice
job, Vaughn. Well press on with this
tomorrow.
Thats his signal to leave. Then I look
at Susan and ask her to stay in the room
with me. When Vaughns gone, I close
the door and sit next to my partner. I put
my elbows on the table, rub my eyes
with my hands, and blow out some air.
Susan
Look, she interrupts, I know this
case must be hard for you, with David
being your friend. Are you sure you even
want to be first chair? I can step up if
you need me to.
Thanks. But I can push through it.
And I think I better do it alone. Thats
what I want to talk about. I know I
promised you I could play it straight. But
there are things going on in this case that
you dont know about, and that I cant
tell you. The fact is, I may have to go
completely cowboy once we get to
court. And the whole thing might blow
up in my face. If that happens, I dont
want you anywhere near the fallout.
Susan leans back in her chair, crosses
her arms. What exactly are you telling
me here? Or not telling me? Did David
confess to you? Are you looking to get
rid of me so youll have a free hand to
put him on the stand, help him perjure
himself? I mean, what the hell? Thats
not the type of law practice I want to be
a part of. I used to be a United States
attorney. I cant have you helping clients
lie on the stand. She emphasizes the
point by nailing the conference-room
table with her index finger.
Its not that. Im not going to help
David lie under oath.
Then tell me whats going on.
I cant tell you, I say too loudly.
And that, too, is to protect you. All I
can say is that you dont want to get too
close to this one.
Susan exhales, waits for a minute
before saying anything. Is this the only
thing that has you so on edge? Or is there
more? Is it the firms financial
problems? Things at home?
Though Ive not gone into any great
detail, Ive confided to Susan that things
between Piper and me could be better.
 None of that helps, I say. But,
look, the firms been short of cash
before, and weve gotten through it. And
Piper and I . . . I shrug. What can I
say? It is what it is.
So its just the case, then?
I nod.
And youre going to handle it the
way Marcie told you? Whatever it
takes?
Whatever it takes. Thats exactly
how its going to be. How it has to be.
Susan studies me, then stands and pats
me on the shoulder. I hope you know
what youre doing, she says. For
everyones sake.
So do I, I answer.
For everyones sake.
Its 7:30 p.m., and Im alone in the office
except for the cleaning lady, whos
finishing up our suite. My phone rings.
Its the night-shift security guard, calling
from the front desk. I have a visitor
Mr. Hanson. Is it okay to send him up?
A minute later, I hear the elevator
door ding and see David turn the corner,
walk down the hall. Hes wearing an
Italian black-leather jacket that likely
cost as much as I make in a month. His
jacket hangs over a light-blue,
herringbone, button-down shirt that
David probably had made in London.
His wool trousers are sharply pleated
and break perfectly over his shoes. I
remember David telling me once that he
had all his dress shoes made for him in
Argentina, that he flew down once a year
to meet his shoemaker, pick out the
leathers, have his feet remeasured.
Davids face shows me hes still
basking in his victory at the gag-order
hearing. Hes all smiles. He wont be for
long.
I open the door for David, shake his
hand perfunctorily. I offer few words.
All business. I lead David into my
office, close the door, and lock it. David
sits on one of the chairs across from my
desk. Hes sensed my tension.
Is everything all right? With the
case?
Turn your chair around, I say. I
have to show you something. David
turns his chair so hes facing the large
TV screen, which is linked with my
computer. I pull the DVD out of its
plastic container, slide it into the
computer.
Five minutes later, David is slumped
in the chair, his expression that of a man
standing before a firing squad. It is so
quiet now that I can hear the second hand
of my watch. I let it tick for a full minute.
I didnt do it, Mick. I didnt kill
Jennifer.
I stare at David, wait a beat. Sure
you didntjust like you never went to
her house that day. That is what you told
me, right?
David lowers his head, closes his
eyes. More time passes. Im sorry for
lying to you. But she was dead when I
got there. I swear it.
Then why didnt you call the
police?
I froze. I panicked. I thought about
calling the police; I really did. But I
knew it would all come out. I was on the
verge of some big things with the
company. A scandal would have ruined
it. Years of work down the drain.
Years of plotting and scheming, I
think.
So you just left her there, a woman
youd been intimate with who-knows-
how-many times? Someone you laughed
with, played with, maybe even bared
your soul to? You left her lying on the
basement steps?
David closes his eyes again. It was
an awful thing to do. A cowardly thing.
If I could go back, do it again, Id call
the authorities.
Why go back at all, if you knew
what was in there? Why expose yourself
to getting caught in the house with a
body? How could you even dream that
you could sanitize a crime scene so well
that the CSU guys wouldnt pick anything
up?
Davids jaw tightens. I get the
impression hes asked himself the same
question a hundred times. It was a
stupid thing to do, he says. Idiotic.
We sit for a minute as David stews. Then
he considers what hes seen on the tape
and asks, Was I the only one on the
video?
Yes, I answer. A lie. I cant tell
David who else was on the original
video, which I edited down to the much
shorter version that I just shared with
David.
David clenches his jaw. Fucking
Devlin Walker must be dancing in the
streets over this.
Devlin Walker has no idea this
video exists, I say. And its my
intention to keep it that way.
David is puzzled.
I answer him before he asks. This
tape was delivered to me as part of a
blackmail attempt.
Blackmail? David literally shouts
the word, and I almost laugh out loud at
his indignation. After everything hes
done, hes upset at mere extortion?
David steams for a few seconds, until
his practical side kicks in. Who? How
much?
Its better you not know who, I say.
As for how much . . . I tell David the
figure, and he shouts again.
No way! Thats insane. I want to
know whos behind this.
I sit calmly, my elbows and forearms
on my desk, hands together. Im not
sharing that with you. And as for
insane, I think it would be crazy of you
not to pay.
Let Walker have the video. Im not
afraid of whats on it. Ill explain to the
jury that Jennifer was dead when I got
there, and youll argue that someone else
killed her before I arrived.
Was she dead when you first got
there? Or only by the time you left?
Fuck you, Mick! Fuck you. I did not
kill Jennifer. I told you
You told me a lot of things! Now
its my turn to yell. I shoot out of my
seat, point my finger at David. You told
me you werent at Jennifers house
anywhere near the time of murder, and
that was a lie. You told me youd only
been seeing her a few weeks, and that
was a lie. And youve been feeding me
and my staff that fairy tale about
spending the whole afternoon taking a
thirteen-mile walk in your suit and
custom-made shoes. So stop telling me
you didnt kill that woman and insisting
that I believe you. Im not accepting
anything you say at face value anymore.
As a matter of principle.
Davids face is purple now. The
veins in his temples are throbbing. His
teeth are showing. Something flashes
across his eyes. Glee, a cruel glee, is
what I see. David is itching to tell me
something. But he pulls back. He closes
his eyes, takes a deep breath, then
another. He sits down, puts his elbows
on the chair arms, steeples his fingertips.
I use the pause in our fight to remove the
DVD from the computer, walk it to my
wall safe, lock it inside. Then I return to
my chair and address my antagonist in as
calm a voice as possible.
Im going out on a limb here. Its
against everything I believe in to give
you this advice. Its unethicalin fact,
illegalfor me to say this, but here it is.
You have no choice. You must pay the
money.
David stares at me, matches the
control in my voice, and tells me, Ill
think about it. Thats all I can promise.
Without saying more, he stands and
walks out.
I wait until I hear him leave our suite,
hear the door click behind him. Then I
pick up my phone, dial the number, and
wait for her to answer.
Hello, Marcie, I say. Its Mick.
Remember what you told me when Susan
and I came to your house? Whatever it
takes? I pause. Marcie waits quietly at
the other end, wondering what Im going
to say, calculating. Davids just left my
office. Hes very upset. Ive told him to
do something he doesnt want to do.
Hes going to ask your opinion. When he
does, you will advise him to pay the
money.
I close my eyes and sit still in my
chair, let the silence wash over me. For
the first time in a long while, I feel Ive
managed to get some control over things.
David Hanson will pay the money; I
have no doubt. Marcie will make him.
That will ensure that the video does not
reach Devlin Walker until I decide its
time to show him the parts of the tape he
needs to see. I smile as I envision the
look on Devlins face when that time
comes. David, of course, will still have
to unveil his real alibi. And in the end, if
all goes well, David will walk.
Jennifers other killer will stay hidden.
And my family will be preserved.
 19
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6;
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 7

Its almost midnight, and I am still

awake. Gabby is in her room, asleep.
Piper is probably on Amtrak, heading
toward 30th Street Station, returning
from yet another trip with her girlfriends
to New York City.
I sigh and open my eyes. Im not
going to fall asleep anytime soon. The
neon-blue numbers on my alarm clock
change to 12:00 midnight exactly, and I
begin to wonder what all the important
people in my life are doing right now.
I see David and Marcie Hanson
sitting in Davids study, surrounded by
priceless art, drinking tea or sake out of
dainty Japanese cups, plotting their next
move, some bold gambit designed to
direct public attention away from
Davids apparent guilt, portray him as a
pawn in the ambition-driven plans of the
district attorneys office.
I envision Anna Groszek, dreaming of
returning in triumph to her hometown of
Poznan, showing up at the home of her
ex-husband in a chauffeur-driven
limousine. Anna sends the driver to
knock on the door and watches from the
car as Emeryk Groszek and his cow-
faced second wife walk out onto the
porch, peer at the limo, try to figure out
what great and important person has
come to visit them. Anna rolls down her
tinted window, takes in the shock on
Emeryks and Agneskas faces as they
realize who it is. She laughs, leans out
the window, and spits on the road in
front of their house.
Finally, my mind lands on Tommy. I
see him with terminally ill Lawrence
Washington, the two of them sitting at the
picnic table outside Tommys trailer in
Jim Thorpe, bundled in heavy sweaters
against the chill of the fall night air.
Tommy gets up to fetch them each a
bottle of Bud. He sits back down, and
the two of them stare at each other and
take turns swigging their beers. Again, I
wonder why Tommys putting himself
through the same passion play he shared
with our father. And, for the first time, I
think I might know the answer: Tommys
using Lawrence to punish himself. The
cops slow death is another thing to feel
guilty about. To beat himself up over.
I sit up in bed, swing around so that
my feet are resting on the floor. Im
terrified that Tommy is going to wander
off the straight and narrow again,
disappear back into his netherworld of
dive bars, fleabag hotels, and impulsive
violence. Ive been afraid of it since the
day he was released from prison, and my
fears deepened when Lawrence
Washington told me about Tommy
working for the cop drug ring to pay off
his gambling debts.
Damn, Tommy. I say the words out
loud. What can I do to help him? Why
must he punish himself like this?
I sit for a long time. I can hear the
ticktock of the grandfather clock in the
living room downstairs. Across the hall,
Gabby murmurs in her sleep. I stand up,
walk to her room, sit on the bed next to
her. Gabbys mop of dark hair is spread
all over the pillow. Her tiger, Toby, has
fallen onto the floor, and I reach down,
pick him up, and put him into her arms.
As if on cue, Gabby flips onto her
stomach. I shiver as the image of
Jennifer Yamura, faceup on her basement
steps, flashes through my mind. I think of
Jennifers parents. Id read in the
Inquirer that their names were John and
Margaret Yamura. That John was a
longtime IT specialist with the
University of Southern California, and
Margaret a stay-at-home mom. The
article said John and Margarets own
parents had been rounded up during
World War II and held in the internment
camps. After the war, of course, they
were all releasedto pay their taxes
and raise children who could serve the
country in later wars. Jennifers father
served two tours in Vietnam, and her
uncle died there.
I cannot imagine what theyve been
going through these past five months.
Every moment, every milestone Piper
and I have experienced with Gabby, the
Yamuras enjoyed with Jennifer. And they
had twenty more years worth of
memories. Lacrosse and basketball
sports Jennifer played in high school,
according to the Inquirer. Prom night.
High school graduation, college
graduation, the first job, the big move to
the East Coast to take a job with a
major-market TV station. And, I
imagine, adult conversations. Late-night
telephone calls to Mom or Dad when
Jennifer was lonely or had suffered a
setback, in need of a small slice of the
comforts of home.
And, finally, the call that ended it all.
Some police officer telephoning from
three thousand miles away to tell John
and Margaret Yamura that their daughter
had been murdered and asking would
they mind flying to Philadelphia to
identify her body. They did, of course,
right away; their pictures were in the
paper. With them was their son and
Jennifers fraternal twin, Brian, a
computer guy like his father, whod
gotten in early at MyFace, the social
networking site, and made $1 billion
when the company went public. Brian
Yamura, the American dream, brother of
Jennifer Yamura, the American
nightmare.
I lean over and kiss Gabby on the
cheek, whispering, I will never let
anyone hurt you. I sigh and leave the
room, climb back into my bed.
About an hour later, I hear the
automatic garage door open for Pipers
car. I hear her high heels on the wood
floor as she walks around the kitchen.
She pulls something out of the
refrigerator, probably a cold bottle of
Smartwater. Before long, Piper is in the
bathroom, brushing her teeth, then in our
bedroom and taking off her clothes. I
dont open my eyes, dont stir, wanting
her to think Im asleep. Piper climbs into
bed next to me. I can tell shes lying on
her side, her elbow on the bed, her hand
holding up her head. I cant see her, but I
can tell shes looking at me. Studying
me.
 Piper stays this way for what seems
like a long time, and I begin to get the
sense that she wants to say something.
Emotion surges suddenly through my
chest. Is this the night shes going to
confess? Is she ready to tell me? Am I
ready to hear it? I hold my breath, start
to count. One thousand one. One
thousand two. One thousand three. Piper
turns on her back, exhales. Tonight is not
the night. I exhale, too.

I wake up to the smell of bacon. Sunlight

washes through the front bedroom
windows. The alarm clock reads 8:00
the latest Ive slept in a long time.
 Look, Daddy! I turn to see Gabby
standing in the doorway, a white
porcelain mug in her hand. Mommy
made you coffee. You can drink it in
bed! Taking her time so as not to spill,
Gabby delivers the mug to me. I take the
mug, inhale the rich aroma of freshly
brewed Starbucks French roast. Gabby
climbs into bed with me and tells me
how shes been helping her mother cook
our breakfast. Were having eggs and
pancakes and bacon, and youre going to
read the Sunday paper, and me and
Mommy are not allowed to bother you,
and thats an order.
I smile, tousle Gabbys hair. You can
bother me all you want.
What is Piper up to? Watching me
sleep last night, coffee in bed, and a big
breakfast this morning? I search my
memory of the past few days, searching
for some reason for Pipers apparent
warming, but can find none. In earlier
years, such solicitousness was typically
a prelude to request to make a major
purchase. But Piper no longer seeks my
approval before buying big-ticket items.
She now prefers to spring them on me
and coil for the counterattack she knows
shell launch in response to my
protestations.
Our breakfast proves to be the most
pleasant meal Ive had with Piper in
years. She tells me all about the show
she saw last night, and how she and her
friends reacted to it. Gabby pipes in that
she wants to go to a play, and Piper says
shell find one the three of us will enjoy.
I say what great fun it would be to go to
a show with Piper and Gabby, and we
all agree well see one before
Thanksgiving.
After breakfast, I move into my home
office, crank up the computer, and work
on an appellate brief thats due to be
filed with the superior court. Piper
knocks on the doors frame and asks if I
want a sandwich before I leave to meet
Tommy. Still full from breakfast, I beg
off but thank her for asking.
An hour later Im in the car, heading
to Lancaster. I wonder why Tommy was
so insistent on visiting our parents
graves this weekend, why it couldnt
wait until after the Hanson trial. I let my
thoughts drift to the period after Mom
died, when it was just Dad and Tommy
and me, groping our way through it. The
memory that comes to mind is of Tommy
and me hiding behind the trunk of the big
tree in our backyard one December
evening as our dad grilled us all some
steak; Dad was awful with the oven and
cooked most of our meals on the grill,
even in the winter. Tommy and I waited
until Dad opened the grill lid to flip the
steaks, turning his back on the tree. We
sprang from our hiding place and pelted
him with snowballs. He dropped his
spatula into the grill and engaged us in a
snowball fight that took us from the
backyard to the front. All of us forgot
about dinner, and the meat and the
plastic handle of the spatula were
burned to a crisp. Dad ended up taking
Tommy and me to Burger King, the three
of us laughing our heads off over the
mess wed made.
I suddenly cant wait to see Tommy,
smile with him over the snowball fight.
As I turn into the cemetery parking lot,
Im in the best mood Ive been in for
months. This is exactly what I needed.
Im glad Tommy persuaded me to do
this. I get out of the car, walk past
Tommys black-and-silver Harley. Its a
chilly day, overcast and in the low
fifties. Im surprised Tommy rode his
bike. Hes told me before how cold it
can get riding on a day like this, even
with leathers.
I walk through the arbor leading into
the cemetery and make my way down the
path to my parents graves. In the
distance, I see Tommy in front of the big
marble headstone that marks their final
resting place. Tommy is kneeling, and it
seems to me hes talking to them. He
sees me approach and stands up. His
solid, 210-pound frame is covered in
black leather from collar to foota guy
you wouldnt want to meet in an alley. I
smile and wave to my brother. Tommy
waves back. I step up beside him, and
we shake hands. Im still smiling, feeling
light.
Drive by the old house after this? I
ask, something we often do after visiting
the grave site.
Tommy looks at the headstone without
answering. He kneels back down,
adjusts the fresh flowers he brought with
him. I never remember to do that. Tommy
never forgets.
I kneel beside Tommy, brush my
fingers across our parents names.
Thanks for suggesting this, I say. I
needed to do this more than I thought.
After a minute, I remind Tommy of a
time that all four of us went together to
Longs Park for a picnic. How pretty
Mom looked. How strong Dad was, how
far he could throw a football. How
young we all were.
Tommy nods but keeps staring at the
tombstone.
 After a while, we both stand up, and I
ask Tommy how hes doing. Whether
Lawrence Washington is still hiding out
at his trailer and if he is, how hes
holding up.
Still there, Tommy answers.
Hows he doing? Hes dying. Hes
down about forty pounds.
He should be in a hospital.
He doesnt want to be in a hospital.
Hooked up to all that equipment. Nurses
in and out all day and night, sticking
needles in him. Maybe have some
roommate who cant stop talking. Where
he wants to be is home, but he cant go
there. The DA would be all over him for
taking off. And his former buddies might
smoke him before hes ready to go.
 Tough situation, I say.
This isnt going like Id planned.
Tommy has only smiled once since I
arrived. Hasnt volunteered a single
good memory of Mom or Dad. Okay, so
its up to me.
Do you remember that big snowball
fight we had with Dad by the grill?
Tommy stares at me, then looks down
at the marker. A raindrop smacks against
the top of the tombstone. Then another,
and another. Im thinking that I wish Id
bought a baseball cap when Tommy
says, still looking down, He didnt just
die.
Tommy waits for the words to sink in,
but they dont. I stand there,
uncomprehending. Tommy looks up at
me, and I see his eyes are wetand not
with rain. He was in so much pain, he
says.
Now I get it.
Jesus, Tommy. What did you do?
I kept asking the doctors to give me
more morphine to take to him; I begged
them for it. But they said no, hed get
addicted. Can you believe that? Hes
lying on his fucking deathbed, in agony,
and theyre holding back on the
painkillers cause he might become an
addict. I almost punched that one doctor,
the young one. I did take him by the
collar. But I stopped myself, before . . .
Tommy is rambling now. I step back,
trying to comprehend what Im hearing.
Are you saying you
 I couldnt take it anymore. He kept
moaning and crying. I begged him to let
me call the ambulance, take him to the
hospital, but he told me no way, no way.
He wanted to go in the house. He told
me he could see Mom, sometimes, by the
bed, waiting for him. Oh, Christ . . .
The tears are streaming down the
sides of Tommys face now, mixing with
the rain. My own eyes are filling now,
too. Did he ask you? To do it?
Tommy shakes his head. He never
wouldve put something like that on me.
Never. But I had to do it. I had to. It was
the only way. Tommy keeps talking, and
by the time I hear the word pillow, my
mind is completely dazed. I try to free
myself from what Tommy is saying. I
look down at my fathers name carved in
the marble, then at my mothers. I look at
the flowers, purple and pink. I gaze up at
the sky, try to find a bird to fly away
with. But the gravity of my brothers
pain keeps pulling me back to him, to his
shaking hands, his stinging eyes, his
twisted face. Tommy is literally
drowning in front of me. I want to reach
out, grab him. Save him, somehow. But I
am frozen in place.
My brother and I stand there, facing
each other in silence as the seconds drag
on. Tommy is looking to mefor
something. But I have nothing to give.
Finally, I lower my head. My God,
I say.
And thats the end of it. Tommy looks
at me another minute, his eyes filled with
sorrow, disappointment, anger. Then he
turns away. I watch him walk down the
path to the parking lot and disappear
through the arbor. I hear the engine of his
motorcycle, loud as he starts the bike
and revs it, then fading as he rides away.
 20
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 7,
CONTINUED; MONDAY,
OCTOBER 8

I am soaking wet. I have no idea how

long Ive been in the car or how long I
stood at the grave site after Tommy left. I
cant see out the windshield, its raining
so hard now. The car isnt running, and I
realize suddenly that Im cold and have
been for some time. I turn the key, start
the engine, adjust the heat. The radio is
on, a female pop singer. Against the
backdrop of whats just happened, it
feels obscene to listen to the upbeat
music. I turn it off, close my eyes, relive
the scene at the grave site. Tommy, state
wrestling champ, the unbreakable slab of
marble, tattooed survivor of the prison
system, leather-clad Harley rider, crying
like a two-year-old. Spilling his guts to
his older brother, reaching out for . . .
what? Something I failed to give him. So
he had to ride away, alone.
I back up, make a three-point turn,
and pull out of the parking lot. Im
almost at the turnpike, twenty-some
miles from the cemetery, when I realize
the radio is on again. I mustve turned it
on, but I dont remember doing so. Its
four oclock when I pass through the
tolls for Highway 76. Next thing I know,
its thirty minutes later, and Im close to
home. But I dont want to go home, so
after I exit the turnpike, I make my way
to the Stadium 16 movieplex at King of
Prussia, across from the mall. In a daze,
I buy a ticket and make my way through
the crowded lobby, past the ticket taker,
down the hall to the theater, where I take
a seat in the back row. The lights go
down, the noise level rockets, and I sit
numb and motionless through ninety
minutes of explosions, computer-
generated images, and adolescent
dialogue.
I remain utterly disengaged from the
movie until, toward the end, one of the
characters, the lead, I think, if there is a
lead in this jumble of science-fiction
action scenes, asks something that strikes
me.
Why now?
Why have the big robots chosen this
precise moment in human history to
attack the earth, wipe out humanity? The
world is already on the brink of war, the
superpowers poised to annihilate one
another with nuclear bombs. All the
robot invasion seems to have
accomplished is to forge mankind into a
band of brothers fighting together against
a common enemy.
Why now?
And I ask myself the same question
about my brother. Why has Tommy
chosen this precise point in time to tell
me he killed our father? Tommys had
twenty years to unburden himself of his
secret. Why didnt he tell me sooner?
Why not wait a little longer?
After the movie, I drive to Minellas
Diner on Lancaster Avenue, take a seat
at the counter. I order meat loaf with
mashed, and when the waitress asks
what other sides I want, I tell her to
surprise me. My iPhone, on the counter,
buzzes. I mustve turned it to silent mode
at the movie theater. I lift the phone and
see that Piper is calling. I click the
power button to turn off the phone, send
Piper to voice mail. Then I turn the
phone back on and see that she has
called me three times already. After a
while, I notice the waitress has
delivered my food. It gets cold as I pick
at it and order refills on my coffee.
Sometime around eight oclock, I
make it home. I know Piper will be
pissed at me for not answering the
phone, and I expect a scene as soon as I
walk in the kitchen. Shes waiting for
me, but its concern, not anger, that
etches her face. Dense as I am, I figure
out why. Tommy mustve told her ahead
of time what he had in store. Which can
only mean one thing.
You knew? I say. You knew!
Piper keeps her cool, keeps her voice
steady, quiet. You wanted Tommy to
open up to me, Mick, she says. You
said he was closed off. That he needed
someone he could talk to. And you were
right. He carried it all inside, for years.
The grief. The pain. And the guilt.
Monstrous guilt. Its why Tommy threw
his life into the trash heap. Why, when he
faced hard time, he didnt even fight the
charges. Tommy is as good as they get, at
his core. In his heart. And he knew that,
however good his intentions, he had to
be punished for what hed done to your
father.
I am dumbstruck. I stare at Piper. He
told you all that?
He didnt have to. It was obvious to
me, once he told me about the
euthanasia.
Euthanasia? I repeat the clinical
term. Patricide.
Pipers eyes turn to steel, and she
speaks slowly, with visible restraint.
You have no right to judge. You left him
there, by himself, to deal with your
fathers failing health. You went off to
college while Tommy stayed home and
put his life on hold. You took your
classes, played tennis, and went to frat
parties while Tommy struggled at a job
he hated just to pay the bills. She holds
up a hand to stop my protest. Yes, you
offered to stay home and help. But
Tommy knew, and your father knew,
where your heart really was. So they
told you to go back to school, finish up.
While Tommy watched the man he
idolized, his hero, waste away. In the
end, Tommy was bathing him, helping
him on and off the toilet. Feeding him.
Listening to him moan and cry out, so
delirious with pain he imagined he saw
your mother in the room with him.
Piper is crying now. Think about it.
How could Tommy feel anything other
than that youd abandoned him and your
father both?
I bend over, put my hand on the
marble top of the island in the middle of
our kitchen, lean into it as I lower my
head, close my eyes. My voice is quiet
when I ask, Why didnt he tell me . . .
about Dad? Why did he hold it back all
these years?
I asked him that when he first told
me. Tommy said he didnt want to lay
that at your feet. He thought it would
mess you up. And make things worse
between the two of you.
But now he has laid it at my feet.
Why? And why now?
Piper shakes her head. She doesnt
know why any more than I do. She stares
at me, searching, it seems, or wanting to
say something more. But the air goes out
of her. She turns and walks toward the
stairs. She pauses at the threshold,
closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.
After a moment, she opens her eyes
again and walks up the steps.

I stay where Im standing for a long time,

watching the space at the bottom of the
landing. I am spent, wiped out. Im also
still confused, unable to figure out
Tommys motivation for suddenly telling
me what he did. And Im pissed because
Piper has known all along. Im feeling
like the odd man out in my own
marriage, the schmuck left standing
without a chair when the music stops.
Then again, Ive been feeling that way
for a long time.
A few minutes later, Im in my home
office, throwing back a glass of
eighteen-year-old Macallan, the thick
liquid burning the back of my throat.
Much later, the bottle sits half-empty
on my desk. My head aches. My stomach
is churning. I havent eaten since
breakfast. Tommys revelation has
unhinged me. Pipers indictment has cut
me to the quick. I see my brother, twenty
years old, no one around to help him,
looking down at our pain-racked father. I
see him crying as Dads face disappears
under the pillow. I feel Tommys strong,
resolute hands hold down the pillow as
our father goes through his death throes.
And when its over, I hear Tommy
wailing as he cradles Dad, begs his
forgiveness.
I pour another glass of the Macallan,
seeing it all clearly now. Ive spent my
entire life leaving the people I love.
First, I disassociated myself from my
mothers death. Then I abandoned
Tommy and our dad. The DAs office
was another example. Everyone was
stunned by my announcement. It was
sudden, and Id done nothing to prepare
my team for my leaving, for the
onslaught they expected would come
from Devlin and his allies. No chance to
mend the political fences theyd broken
in my name. It was lucky for them that
Devlin turned out to be a good leader
and welcomed them to his own team.
And what had it done to Piper?
During my years with the prosecutors
office, Piper and I had done a lot of
socializing with my colleagues. Not just
the ADAs, but with the detectives who
worked side by side with us to build our
cases. There were backyard barbeques,
picnics, and pickup baseball games in
Fairmount Park. Kids birthday parties,
more than a few weddings. Piper
became close with many of my
colleagues and their spouses. And yet
inexcusably, I now seeI never
considered what my leaving the DAs
office would do to Piper. Looking back,
I realize that my abruptly switching sides
to become a criminal-defense attorney
mustve been awful for her. Her many
friends in law enforcement must surely
have given her the cold shoulder. I
envision Piper leaving messages on
answering machines and getting no
return calls. I see the invitations to
parties and girls nights out drying up.
But Piper kept it from me, never once
complaining.
 And to bookend the evaporation of
Pipers social life, I gave her less of
myself as a private practitioner than I
had as a prosecutor. I stayed later at the
office, worked every weekend. And
when I was home, I wasnt engaged. As
she told me recently, Even when youre
here, youre not here. Piper had been
sitting across from me at the dinner
table, helping Gabby relate a funny story
about something that had happened at
school. I wasnt reacting, and Piper
flipped out. You may as well go back to
the office, she snarled. You just
pretend to be at home with us. Piper
slammed her fork onto her plate and left
the table. Gabby started crying. I looked
back and forth at the two of them,
oblivious.
You idiot. I say it out loud. You
prick.
And with that, something inside me,
something thats been lurking for a long,
long time, reaches up and pulls me down
from the sky and throws me through the
window, into the kitchen, where Mom
lies dead and Dad weeps over her body.
I sit across the table from my little
brother, so small, racked with pain and
incomprehension, staring at our parents
and then looking to me for help. And this
time, there is no escape for me. The
window is closed; the birds fly past
without me. Sorrow slices my heart.
But this time, I do what I should have
done before. I walk Tommy to the floor,
where we hug and hold on to our broken
father, showing Dad and our departed
mother that our love lives on.
My mind leaps ahead to the summer
after my freshman year in college.
Tommy and I are sitting in the backyard,
watching our father cooking on the grill
and coughing. I tell Tommy Im
transferring to Millersville, the local
state college, so I can help care for Dad.
For the next three years, I live at home,
and Tommy and I together share the
burden of caring for our father. We are
both there when he passes, without our
help. Then Tommy enlists in the military,
becomes a Navy SEAL. He serves
heroically, risking his life in one
dangerous black-ops mission after
another. When he accepts his discharge,
the other men in his unit lament the loss
of their best man. Tommy comes home,
and I take a few weeks off from my job
as an assistant district attorney to
vacation with him somewhere hot and
hopping with other young people. Then
Tommy heads off to the federal law-
enforcement training center to become a
federal agent. He falls in love with a
woman he meets undercover, a frank-
talking Italian with a crooked smile and
a black belt in kickboxing. They get
married, have three boysroughnecks
like their father.
I meet and marry Piper Gray. She
supports me in my career as an assistant
district attorney. The years roll by, and I
advance in the prosecutors office.
Gabby does well in school, and Piper
and I share a strong and happy marriage.
We go on long vacations, have date
nights, talk in bed after we make love. I
eventually jump ship to the defense side,
but I give my staff plenty of warning to
prepare themselves. And I make sure to
preserve plenty of time for Gabby and
for Piper.
On the straight and narrow, Tommy
never becomes a mule for the crooked
policemen. Never meets Jennifer
Yamura to tell her about the drug ring.
And Jennifer herself, having no story to
print, never winds up at the center of a
storm, never has need of a slick
criminal-defense attorney, and never
ends up dead on the stairs.
These visions from an alternate life
only double my anguish over what I have
done. I plant my elbows on my desk,
bury my face in my hands. My eyes
flood.
I cant believe it. I just cant believe
it.
Sometime later, I pass out. In the
morning I awaken, still at my desk, to the
distinct feeling that Im being watched. I
lift my throbbing head, look around. The
light stinging my eyes, I bring Piper into
focus. Shes standing in the doorway, a
cup of coffee in her hands. She studies
me, then moves into the room, sits down
across the desk, tentatively slides the
cup to me. Here, she says.
 I shake my head slowly. Im sorry
thats what I want to say, but my throat is
so raw and dry I cant push the words
out. So I cough, reach for the cup, and
take a sip of coffee.
I can only imagine what youre
feeling, Piper says. But try to
remember . . . Tommy was so young. He
did what he felt was the right thing to do.
And it broke him. It shattered him into
pieces.
I look across the desk at Piper and
then down at my cup of coffee, nodding.
I know.
You have to forgive him, Mick.
My eyes begin to tear up again.
Theres nothing to forgive. He did the
right thing.
 Then you tell him so.
I slide my hand across the desk,
reaching for Piper. She takes it in her
own.
Mick, she says, her eyes filled with
what seems to me to be sadness,
bottomless sadness. I push myself off my
chair, walk around the desk to meet my
wife. Piper stands, reaches around me as
I kiss her forehead, caress her hair, more
tenderness between us than weve
shared for years.
Tommys going to be all right, I
promise. Were all going to be all
right.
Piper looks up at me, forces a smile.
She lowers her head against my chest,
and I feel a shiver run through her.
 Daddy, you look awful!
Gabby! Piper and I shout in unison,
and Piper adds, How many times have I
told you not to sneak up? Gabbys face
contorts like shes going to cry until she
sees Piper smiling, and we all begin to
laugh.
Seeing that shes brought the house
down, Gabrielle goes on. You smell
really bad, too. You should go get a
shower.
I look at Piper, who says, Yeah, you
really should.
So I do. And when Im done, I join
my wife and daughter in the kitchen, and
we eat a big breakfast and tell stories
and laugh, and I do something I havent
done in years. I take a weekday off from
work.
 21
THURSDAY, OCTOBER
11

The clock on my dashboard reads 7:15

p.m. Tomorrow, I am meeting Anna
Groszek. Tonight, I visit David Hanson
to pick up the money. One of the doors to
his four-car garage opens, and I pull
inside. Once my car is stopped, I hear
the garage door close behind me. I get
out, look around. To my right is Davids
black BMW 760Li and, beyond it, a gray
two-door Bentley Continental GT. To my
left is a red Porsche 911 Turbo S
Cabriolet. I know theres another garage
on the property where David keeps his
super-high-end cars.
What I dont see is David. Instead, to
my surprise, I spot Marcie at the back of
the garage. Something came up at the
last minute, and David had to leave, she
says. Youll be happy to know hes
driving my Audi A6, she adds. Its
white and small. He hates it.
Shes referring to the warning I gave
David about not driving any of his
sportier or more luxurious cars. I dont
want potential jurors to see a picture of
him in the newspaper climbing out of a
Lamborghini.
I remain standing next to my car,
unsure what to do, until Marcie taps one
of the two black Tumi suitcases sitting
on the floor next to her. I think these are
what you came for. With that, Marcie
extends the handle and pulls one of the
two wheeled bags to the back of my car.
I walk over and get the other suitcase,
then join her by the trunk. I press the
button on my electronic key, and the
trunk opens. I lower the handles on the
two bags and deposit them into the trunk,
then close the lid.
Just so you know, Marcie says.
Coming up with this much cash isnt as
easy as youd think. David had to take
the company jet so he could secretly
leave the country and fly to the
Caribbean and Mexico. He pulled the
first two million from numbered
accounts in Grand Cayman. The second
half he borrowed from some HWI
slush fund in Mexico. Marcie smiles at
the last part, probably thinking that
Davids withdrawal in some way put the
screws to Edwin.
I dont know what to say to this. Ive
seen it speculated that Davids net worth
is close to $100 million. The amount I
told David he had to turn over is a small
fraction of that. Still, I guess it would be
a chore to convert millions of dollars
from entries on a balance sheet into
cash.
Marcie and I stand face-to-face for a
long minute. Then she smiles and asks if
I can stay for a bit. I hesitate, but she
says, Come on. I just gave you two
suitcases full of money; the least you can
do is share a drink with me. She turns,
and I follow her out the door and across
the roofed pathway leading to the large
mudroom at the back of the house.
Marcie takes off her jacket, hangs it on a
hook, and slips off her shoes. Come
on, she says again and leads me down a
long hall to the great staircase by the
front door.
We ascend the steps to the second
floor, walk down another long hallway.
Marcie opens a door to what she tells
me is her personal sitting room.
Luxurious doesnt do the space justice
its like a beige-and-tan fantasy out of
the Arabian Nights: plush wall-to-wall
carpet; low-to-the-ground, U-shaped
Roche Bobois sofa; six-foot candle
stands; walls adorned with pastel
paintings.
I designed it myself.
I tell her I like it. Theres something
comforting about it. Soothing.
Marcie nods. I had it built out after
my recurrence, when I found out the
surgeons would have to carve me up like
a turkey. I knew I would need a space
where I could take care of myself. A
healing space. Something very different
than the rest of this Gothic rock pile.
Marcie looks around the room, a faint
smile touching her lips. There was a
time when I holed up here for a full
month. Theres a small bedroom with its
own bath behind that door, she says,
nodding to a door on the far wall. I
actually took my chemotherapy in this
room. My oncologist came himself, sat
with me through the IV. You can get
pretty good service if you donate enough
money to the right hospitals.
I glance at the floor-to-ceiling
windows making up most of the back
wall. I imagine during the day this room
is awash in sunlight.
Yes, Marcie says. And through the
windows, I can take in most of the
grounds. Then she frowns and stands
up. Though at night, the windows tend
to darken the room. With that, she
moves to the rear wall, presses a button,
and blinds descend over the windows.
Marcie motions for me to sit, and I
lower myself onto the couch. She sits
next to me, close enough that our knees
are almost touching.
Before us sits a glass cocktail table
on chrome legs. A silver serving tray is
positioned in the middle. An open bottle
of red wine and two stemmed glasses
stand on the tray. Marcie leans forward
and pours herself a glass, and then a
second one for me. You like pinot
noir?
I decline, and we sit in silence until
Marcie starts up again. My hair had
fallen out, my breasts were gone, my
skin was sallow. I became severely
depressed, had no appetite. I lost so
much weight I looked like a
concentration-camp survivor. Marcie
takes a sip, gives me a chance to let it all
sink in.
Eventually, my hair began to grow
back, though I had to wear a wig for
more than a year. Theres a guy in New
Jersey who does brilliant work, actually
specializes in wigs for chemo patients. I
started to eat again, gained some weight.
When I was strong enough, I flew the
boys to my sisters house in California
to get away. Thats where I was when
David was arrested, when I got his call.
A most unwelcome surprise.
Marcie shares all this with no trace of
bitterness or sorrow in her voice. Her
tone is frank, matter-of-fact, as though
she were teaching a tennis lesson. I
admire her for it. I also admire how she
has turned herself around physically.
Three weeks ago, when Susan and I
came by, I saw how healthy Marcie
looked. What I notice now is how fit she
really is. Her sleeveless red-silk blouse
and thin black skirt reveal her arms and
long legs to be firm, even sculpted. And
her chest, as Id noticed before, is full.
Youve been through a lot, I say.
And its probably of small consolation,
but you look great.
Marcie smiles. Thank you for saying
so. Im always open to a compliment. It
makes all the hard workthe weight
training, the running, the yoga, the
reconstructionworthwhile. She
reaches out, touches my hand, her own
very warm. Then she does something
that completely stuns me. She reaches
toward the cocktail table, picks up a
gold case, opens it, and withdraws a
cigarette. She lights it with a sleek
ceramic lighter lying next to it.
Youre kidding me. Thats what I
want to say to Marcie. You just survived
breast cancer, and now youre
smoking?
Marcie leans back and laughs. Oh,
Mick! The look on your face! She takes
a deep drag of the cigarette. I was
never a smoker, she says. Not really.
Oh, I would bum a cigarette or two when
I was drinking, at a party, before my
boys came along. But I never craved
nicotine. Now, though, I smoke exactly
one cigarette a day. Its my way of
looking cancer in the eye and saying,
Fuck you. You owned me for a while.
You stole my body; you took my health.
But now Im back. Im in control. And if
you show up again, Ill set fire to your
sorry ass just like Im burning your little
pet here. With that, Marcie takes
another drag and forcefully expels the
smoke. Then she leans forward, toward
me, and crosses her lean, tan legs. She
says, And one thing you have to admit
about smoking: if its done right, its
sexy as hell.
Instead of agreeing, I steer the
conversation in another direction. How
is David holding up?
Marcie waits a beat, licks her lips,
studies me. Hes worried, she says.
We both are. Of course. Our little ploy
with the house in New York buoyed us
for a while, but this whole videotape
thing has us shaken. I nod my head
several times, unsure what to say. Then
Marcie asks me the same question David
had asked. What guarantee do we have
that the blackmailer wont take our
money and disclose the video anyway?
Guarantee? There is none. But it
wouldnt make any sense to do so,
because then David would have no
reason not to tell the authorities that hed
been blackmailed, which would cause
the police to hunt down the blackmailer.
The smarter play for him, I say,
pretending the blackmailer is a male, is
to take the money and run. And that is
exactly what the blackmailers told me
hes going to do. Take the money and
leave the country.
And when he blows through the
money in a year or two?
I dont think thats going to happen,
I say. My read on the blackmailer is
that hes not the type to squander it. And
even if he did and came back for more,
David will already have been acquitted.
And with double jeopardy
Or convicted, Marcie says,
interrupting me. In which case,
disclosure of the video would destroy
any chance of a successful appeal. And
even if Davids acquitted, well face an
uphill battle convincing everyone that he
really is innocent. If the tape came out
then, itd be a disaster. So, no matter
what happens, the blackmailer would be
in a position to come back for more
and expect it.
I have to nod. Marcies right.
I dont suppose you want to share
the identity of the blackmailer? she
asks.
I cant. Along with the money, thats
part of the deal.
Marcie looks away for a quick
second, then looks back at me and
changes the subject. How is Piper?
How are things between the two of
you?
 The question stops me. I blink before
answering. Piper is good.
And things are good? Marcie leans
into me as she asks, puts her hand on my
thigh. Again, I feel her warmth. Now Im
really taken aback. Marcie is making a
play, and shes not trying to disguise it.
Marcie . . . I close my leg, slide
away from her.
Marcie purses her lips, repositions
herself a little farther down the sofa.
Then she laughs. Mick, you cant be
serious! Shes covering herself,
backtracking now that Ive rebuffed her.
I expect that youve seen couples
driven apart by what David and I are
going through. But Id have thought that
you could see by now that David and I
are working together on this thing. That
were a team.
You certainly seemed to be on the
same page when you pulled that stunt
with the New York geisha house.
Marcie takes a last drag on her
cigarette, long and slow. Then she leans
forward, stubs it out in the ashtray. The
last time you were here, I told you that
David and I have had some long talks
since his arrest. And we have. Long and
difficult. David has told me many things.
Things Id rather not have learned. One
thing David didnt tell me was that he
killed Jennifer Yamura, and I can assure
you, I asked him point-blank. He swears
he didnt, and I believe him.
I let this hang in the air for a moment,
then ask something I wish was
unnecessary. In these talks you had, did
David happen to let you in on his alibi?
Where he was when Jennifer was being
killed? Not that BS about walking a
marathon up and down the sunny banks
of the Schuylkill River, but where he
really was?
Marcie hesitates, looks away, and I
realize instantly that David has told her.
And I also know why Marcie made a
play for me.
Tell me, I say, was it a team
decision that David had to be
somewhere else tonight?
Now its Marcies turn to stare at me.
David didnt kill that girl, Mick. And
he cant go to prison.
 Whatever it takes? I ask.
Marcie picks up her glass, takes a
sip, and looks away.
You tell me David insists he didnt
kill Jennifer Yamura. What if hed told
you he did kill her?
Marcie doesnt miss a beat. Id lie
through my teeth and say otherwise. But
thats not the case.
I believe you, I say.
That Davids innocent?
That youd lie through your teeth.
Ten uncomfortable minutes later, Im
back in my car. The exchange with
Marcie Hanson has left me nonplussed.
The whole thing was a setup. The plan
was for Marcie to seduce me. Maybe go
through with it, or maybe stop it just in
time. Either way, Marcie and David
would have something on me, something
they could hang over my head. A
secondary goal was to convince me,
once and for all, of Davids innocence.
Looking back on the whole weird scene,
I know Marcie was honest about one
thing: she and David continue to work as
a team.
 22
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12

Daddy, I think we should play hockey

again, Gabby says. I want to go back
and see the tigers.
Gabrielle, Piper, and I are sitting
around the island in our kitchen,
finishing breakfast.
Piper rolls her eyes. I think weve
created a monster.
Gabby means hooky. The day I took
off from work, Piper called Gabbys
school and told them our daughter
wasnt feeling well and was staying
home. Id told Gabby, Were all playing
hooky today, and were going to the
zoo. Youd have thought Id just told
Gabrielle that it was Christmas.
Gabby loved the zoo, running from
one set of animals to another, eager to
drink them all in. Watching our daughter
so happy filled me with joy, and I
promised both Piper and Gabby that
there would be lots more trips like that
from then on.
That night, after dinner, we watched a
Disney flick and cozied up together on
the sofa. When the movie was over, I
carried Gabrielle up to her bed, dressed
her in her pajamas, and tucked her in.
While Piper got ready for bed herself, I
came back downstairs, ran the
dishwasher, let Franklin out one last
time, and turned off all the lights. When I
climbed into bed next to Piper, I thought
she was asleep. I turned onto my side,
spooned her, and to my surprise, Piper
backed into me. And things took a course
they hadnt taken in a long, long time.
Its not hockey, peanut, I tell
Gabby. Its hooky. And if you do it
more than once, the principal gets wise
and makes you stay after school. Gabby
slumps in her seat, turns away as I try to
kiss her good-bye. A quick tickle
changes her mood, and she gives me a
full-on hug around the neck as I bend
over her. Im on my way, I tell Piper,
kissing her as I pick my car keys off the
counter. I wont be home late tonight.
Maybe 7:30.
Plodding along with the heavy traffic
on the Schuylkill Expressway, Im
nervous as hell. My trunk has two
suitcases stuffed with money, and Im
petrified of getting into an accident. I
envision a fender bender sending a cloud
of green paper exploding out the back of
my car, the highway jam-packed by a
mile-long pile up of cars, trucks, and
thousands of people streaming through it
to pick up the money and run.
I reach town and park the car on the
north side of Pine Street, across from
Anna Groszeks house. I look up and
down the street as I lift the suitcases out
of the trunk. I roll the bags across the
street and lift them up the white marble
steps and onto the small marble stoop by
the front door. My heart pounding, I ring
the bell. I hear footsteps on the other
side of the heavy door. When the door
opens, it isnt Anna Groszek, but an
enormous young man in black pants and
a red golf shirt stretched across his
broad chest. Hes six three, at least, and
must weigh 250 pounds. The mans eyes
are ice blue like Annas, his jaw
chiseled like the rest of his rock-solid
physique. He looks to be in his
midtwenties. Without a word, he leans
down and grabs both of the suitcases and
turns around. I follow him inside.
We take a few steps down the center
hallway, then turn left through sliding
pocket doors and into a large sitting
room. In the center of the room, across
from the doors are two antique couches
facing each other across a coffee table.
Anna Groszek, sitting forward in one of
the couches, motions for me to sit in the
other. Her friend remains standing and
takes a position behind Anna.
Anna sees me looking at her friend
and says, My nephew, Boris. I nod and
glance up again at him. His eyes narrow
as he returns the look.
Anna pours coffee from a white
porcelain pot into a pair of dainty
porcelain cups. She asks me if I would
like cream or milk. I start to say neither,
that Ive had my morning ration of
coffee, but Boris stiffens. I tell her milk
will be fine. Anna pours the milk, then
lifts my cup and hands it to me across the
coffee table. I thank Anna, take a sip of
the coffee. Its very good, and I say so.
Anna nods, and we sit quietly and,
from my end, uncomfortably. All I want
to do is get the video and tell Anna to get
away before the Hansons come after her.
But the old woman is stretching this out
deliberately. She knows Im ill at ease,
and shes having fun watching me
squirm. Finally, Anna decides its time
to move things along.
Its all there? The amount we agreed
to? Yes?
Yes, I say. Ive counted it myself.
Anna looks back at Boris, who walks
to the suitcases, lays them on their sides,
and opens them. His eyes widen when he
sees the money. Anna remains
impassive. Very good, she says. Of
course, we will count it ourselves, once
youve left.
I exhale, relieved. Of course.
Anna waves to Boris to zip up the
suitcases. She watches him do so. We
both do. Then the old woman turns to me
and asks, Your client, he was good with
this?
Not hardly, I say. But I convinced
him that he had no choice.
As I knew you would. With that,
Anna reaches into a white leather
handbag and removes a mustard-colored
nine-by-seven-inch envelope. As we
agreed, she says, handing me the
envelope. Two copies.
I reach out for the envelope, take it,
and bring it to my lap. I hesitate. These
are all the copies of the video? There
are no others?
Anna Groszek casts me a cold look. I
have offended her. Your client is safe.
You have honored your end of the
bargain, and now so do I.
Anna stands and I follow her lead.
Look, I say, theres something you
should know. Im pretty sure Mr. Hanson
has figured out youre the source of the
video. The angle of the video is straight
on and down, and yours is the house
directly behind Jennifer Yamuras house.
My client is a powerful man,
Mrs. Groszek. And recent events
indicate to me that hes more cunning
than Id given him credit for. And more
dangerous. Im not sure when youre
planning on leaving the country, but Im
thinking the sooner the better.
The old woman processes what Ive
just told her. She looks once at Boris,
then back at me. Do not worry about
me, Mr. McFarland. This money will be
deposited this morning into my bank and
wired immediately to my other bank in
Poland. Tomorrow, Boris and I fly on
US Air to Frankfurt, then to Warsaw.
Envoy class, of course.
Anna Groszek smiles.
 23
SATURDAY, OCTOBER
20; SUNDAY, OCTOBER
21

Its been a week since I met Anna

Groszek, and Piper and I are in our room
at the Park Hyatt at the Bellevue. We
checked in an hour ago, enough time to
change and get ready before heading
down to the ballroom and this years
American Way charity gala.
 I watch Piper pull on the strapless
black Romona Keveza gown she bought
at Latrice, a pricey boutique in Bryn
Mawr. The dress looks great against her
shoulder-length blonde hair, and I say
so. I put on my jacket, and we leave the
room, take the elevator down to the hotel
lobby, and walk toward the elliptical
marble-and-iron stairwell that leads up
one flight to the grand ballroom. The
ballroom is vast. Almost a hundred feet
long and eighty feet wide, with thirty-
foot ceilings, the space can comfortably
accommodate eight hundred people.
Tonight it holds seventy-five tables set
for ten. Each is fitted out in white linen,
white china, sterling silver, and
glistening crystal stemware
appropriate for the annual blue-chip
charity affair. I lead Piper into the room,
toward our table near the front. I spot
Kimberly Baldwin, who, apparently,
will be sitting with us. Next to Kimberly
is a good-looking man who appears to
be twenty years her senior. The
imprisonment of Kimberlys husband,
Phillip, doesnt seem to have stunted her
social life.
Hello, Mick. Piper, you look
smashing! Kimberly gushes as she leans
in to kiss me and Piper. Kimberly
introduces us to her date. My dear, dear
friend, Allen Cohen. Hes been such a
godsend to me through the nightmare of
the past two years.
Piper praises Kimberlys gown and
hair, and Kimberly makes Piper promise
to give Kimberly the name of her stylist.
Allen and I are exchanging small talk
about the Eagles when I spot my partner,
Susan, coming up to the table. Piper and
I stand to greet her.
Just as Susan joins us, I hear Piper
say, Uh-oh. I turn to my head in time to
see Devlin Walker approaching us. With
him is his wife, Leisha, wearing a blue
sequined gown altered to accommodate
her condition. Shes visibly pregnant,
her abdomen sticking out, though you
probably couldnt tell if you were
standing behind her. Leisha is apparently
one of those lucky women who carries
her pregnancy only in the front.
Basketball on a stick, Piper once
described it.
Hello, Mick, Piper, Devlin says,
extending his hand. Leisha, you
remember Mick and Piper McFarland
from Micks days at the DAs office.
This is Micks law partner, Susan
Klein.
So, when are you due? Piper asks
Leisha.
If I stuck myself with one of those
temperature thingies turkeys come with
nowadays, Leisha says, it would pop.
We all smile, then Leisha says to
Devlin, Come on, honey, I need to sit
down. Devlin takes Leishas arm, and
they walk away.
We take our seats, and I scan the
room. Our table is one row back from
the stage. The front line of tables
includes three containing the American
Way of Eastern Pennsylvania officers
and directors and their spouses. Another
table is filled with local politicians. I
see the president of the city council and
his wife. Seated with him is the
chairman of the Philadelphia Democratic
City Committee and his wife, and the
president judge of the court of common
pleas and her husband.
The fifth table in the front row was
purchased, as it is every year, by Hanson
World Industries. Davids half brother,
Edwin, sits facing the stage. The
physical differences between Edwin and
David are striking. Where David is tall
and lean, Edwin is a fireplug, maybe
five foot seven, and thick and solid as
rock. In contrast to Davids fair
complexion and sandy-blond hair,
Edwin is olive-skinned and has dark
hair. There is something striking about
Davids older brother, though. He
radiates strength, energy. Not the
charismatic Kennedy type that wins
instant affection, but the subdued,
smoldering kind that commands respect,
even fear. Contributing greatly to this are
Edwins eyes: wide set on his large face
and deep and dark, almost black. They
give the impression that they front a keen
and calculating intelligence.
To Edwins left is a dour woman who
appears to be in her late forties and who
I assume is Edwins date. To Edwins
right are Kevin Kratz, Davids law-
school lackey, and Kevins wife,
Loretta. After we graduated, David
made sure to enlist Kevin to follow him
to HWIs general counsels office.
Based on what Ive learned recently
about David, my guess is that he knew
that in order to seize the general-counsel
position, he would need a loyal
lieutenant by his side at HWI, just as he
did in college and law school.
Ironically, when David stepped down,
Edwin tapped Kevin Kratz to succeed
him. Im sure this galls David, and Im
equally sure that was a big part of why
Edwin did it. To the left of Edwins date
sits Brandon Landis, the president of
HWIs North American operations. Next
to Brandon is his trophy wife, Lauren.
The last two seats at the HWI table are
empty. I wonder who had the audacity to
stand up Edwin Hanson by no-showing.
Edwin looks tense. Even more tense
is Kevin Kratz, whose facial tic, a
twitching of the right side of his mouth,
is running on overdrive.
One row back from us, in the third
row, is Devlins table. He and Leisha
are seated there with three other
couples. I recognize two of the men and
one of the women as assistant district
attorneys. Among them is one of my
closest allies in the turf war Devlin and I
waged before I left the prosecutors
office. From what I hear, hes now
Devlins best friend. I think of the many
bridges I burned with the thoughtless
manner of my departure. A wave of
sadness sweeps through me.
After a moment, I feel Pipers hand
on my own. She leans toward me and
whispers in my ear, Are you all right?
Before I can answer, a sudden silence
seizes the room. For some reason, my
eye alights on Kevin Kratz. His
twitching has stopped. His face is frozen
marble. Then he says something to
Edwin, and I see Edwins left hand form
into a fist.
I feel Pipers hand on my own,
pressing down hard. I turn to her and see
that shes facing the back of the room,
the central door, where David and
Marcie stand smiling, poised to enter.
 What the hell is he doing here?
Susan says. What is he thinking?
Piper continues to press my hand.
Then Kimberly Baldwin puts her two
cents in. Ooh la la. This is going to get
interesting.
David and Marcie glide across the
room. Davids custom-made tuxedo is
perfectly tailored to fit his broad
shoulders. His diamond studs and cuff
links sparkle in the light cast by the
massive chandeliers. Marcie is stunning.
Shes wearing a strapless, ombr, floral-
print gown in hues of green and silver.
Formfitting, the dress highlights her trim
figure and generous bosom. Her lustrous
raven hair kisses her bare collarbones.
Would you look at that ice . . .
Kimberly says, referring to Marcies
necklace, a five-strand beaded creation
of emeralds accented with round
brilliant diamonds that would put Harry
Winston to shame. I glance at the
necklace, but Im more captivated by
Marcies green eyes, which seem to
gather in the emerald light of the stones;
her irises have an almost otherworldly
glow.
Like they were the king and queen,
says Allen Cohen.
Susan and I exchange uncomfortable
glances, shake our heads. I know shes
thinking the same thing I am: Bad move.
Bad freaking move.
I notice now that Piper no longer has
her hand on mine. Instead, both of her
hands are under the table. Im guessing
shes rubbing them furiously, something
she does when shes especially nervous.
David and Marcie reach the HWI
table, where no one rises to meet them.
David leans down to Edwin and offers
his hand. Edwin accepts it, reluctantly,
his eyes filled with fury. Then Marcie
leans down and pecks Edwin on the
cheek, and she and David move around
the table. Edwins date smiles nervously,
and Brandon and Lauren Landis are cold
but polite. Kevin Kratzs wife certainly
understands whats happening but looks
too bored and miserable to care. Then
David and Marcie reach Kratz himself.
David hovers over Kratz, staring down
at him, without offering his hand. Kratz
glances at Edwin, then, drawn by the
force of Davids will, stands up and
extends his own hand. David waits
before accepting, then leans in and
whispers something in our classmates
ear. Kratz turns positively white.
The whole room has watched this
little play unfold, and everyone is talking
about what theyve seen. At our own
table, Kimberly Baldwin expresses her
distaste for Edwin and her hope that
Davids clever lawyers help him beat
the charges, forgetting, it seems, that
those clever lawyers are sitting with her.
Susan gapes openly at Kimberly when
she says this. Piper continues to lean
forward in her seat, her hands beneath
the table. From a table behind me, I hear
references to Cain and Abel and
Romulus and Remus. For my part, Im
still flummoxed as to why David, soon
to face a jury likely composed of blue-
collar workers struggling to make ends
meet, would show up at a black-tie gala.
Hes smarter than this. So is Marcie.
A few minutes later, just after our
salads are delivered, the band stops. I
notice Candace Stengel, the American
Way chairperson, up on the stage. She
gives the typical introductory remarks,
naming the other officers and directors
with her tonight, thanks everyone for
donating their time and money, and
makes a fuss over the politicians sitting
in the front row. Then she says
something about tonight being
especially special thanks to a pair of
exceptionally generous gifts made by
two of our fellow attendees. I first want
to thank Kimberly Baldwin, who has
reached out to the American Way during
a tragically painful time in her life. It
would have been easy for Kimberly,
whom I count as one of my dearest
friends, to have become cynical. But
Kimberly, as we all know, is the eternal
optimist and never one to be kept down.
And shes shown it to the American Way
tonight by donating a hundred thousand
dollars.
Kimberly basks in the praise. But I
know the reason behind her generosity
isnt to get accolades or do goodshe
simply wants everyone to know shes
still rich. Still in the game.
When the clapping dies down,
Candace continues with a short speech
about the American Ways philosophy of
focusing on the community, working with
neighborhood groups to empower
individual citizens through education,
employment, and financial assistance.
American Way really defines what it
means to be a grass-roots organization,
she says. And here in Philadelphia,
there is one company that has kept its
boots on the ground and marched right
beside us for more than a quarter
century. That company, as most of you
know, is Hanson World Industries,
Philadelphias own homegrown Fortune
500 company. And I am proudno,
breathlessto announce that in addition
to HWIs annual corporate gift, one of its
directors has today donated the
unprecedented sum of one million
dollars to our Educational Impact Fund.
The room falls completely silent. All
eyes move to the HWI table just below
Candace at the front of the room. All
eyes, that is, but mine and Susans.
Weve both figured it out, and were
looking at each other.
Candace spends the next five minutes
gushing about the generosity of David
and Marcie Hanson. I study her face for
some sly signal to her guests that her
praise is tongue in cheek. But she
betrays no crack in the apparent sincerity
with which she sings tribute to my clever
client and his Machiavellian wife. It
cant be easy for Candace, Im sure.
David has been charged with a young
womans murder. But $1 million is $1
million. And Candace will put that
money to good use.
As for the crowd, it is a squirming
millipede. Legs crossing and uncrossing.
Hands wringing, fingers fiddling.
Pained, even cringing, faces. Most
everyone clearly wants to stand up and
shout: Candace! The guys a murderer!
Take his money, okay. But shut up,
already!
And then comes something even
harder to bear. Candace calls David
Hanson up to the stage to say a few
words, accept the organizations thanks.
 David kisses Marcie, then stands and
glides to the steps that lead him up to the
stage. Candace hugs him, hands him the
microphone, then steps aside. David
starts his speech by lamenting the high
school dropout rate in Phillys poor
inner-city neighborhoods. African
American neighborhoods are
particularly hard hit by this plague, he
tells us. The very children who most
need education to raise themselves out
of the poverty into which theyve been
unfairly cast by birth and circumstance
have the hardest time staying in school.
And that is why, he says, he felt
compelled to donate a million dollars to
the American Ways Educational Impact
Fund. Real money to address a real
problem.
Somewhere in the middle of Davids
speech, I glance back a couple of rows,
to where Devlin Walker is sitting. I see
my adversary staring at my client, utterly
motionless. What I also see is the smile
on Devlins lips. Its there because
Devlin, like Susan and I, knows that this
is all going to come back to bite David
in the ass. Perhaps sensing me, Devlin
turns in my direction. His smile grows
just a little wider, and he raises his glass
ever so slightly. I turn away.
Later, after dinner, Piper visits the
ladies room while Susan and I take up
positions near one of the two small bars
set up in the foyer. I spot David and
Marcie in the back of the ballroom,
talking with two couples. The men I
recognize as senior partners in a big
defense firm that handles a lot of HWIs
legal work. Both lawyers are visibly
uncomfortable. They cannot afford to
irritate Edwin Hanson, who could pull
their assignments on a moments notice.
On the other hand, they cant disrespect
David, either, because if he wins an
acquittal and returns as general counsel
at HWI, hell be the one holding their
purse strings.
Susan is more interested in Marcie
Hanson than in David. Shes like
Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two
Cities. The comparison to the female
revolutionary who knits the names of the
people she wants killed when the
revolution finally comes strikes me as
apt. Shes taking notes on how people
are treating her husband. Those who
treat David well will be taken care of
when he returns to power. Those who
dont will lose their heads.
When he returns? Not if?
Look at them, Susan says of David
and Marcie. Theyre acting like theres
no doubt in their minds. I think theyre
absolutely certain David is going to beat
the charges.
He has great lawyers, I say, trying
to sound carefree myself, though I am far
less certain of Davids fate, even given
the things I know that David doesnt. A
moment later, I watch David and Marcie
take their leave of the corporate
attorneys and walk toward us. Give me
a minute with them, I ask of Susan. I
walk to meet the Hansons.
I need to speak with youboth of
you, I say. Then I lead them to an
unoccupied corner of the foyer. What
the hell are you two doing at a gala?
Tuxedo and ball gown? An emerald
necklace that costs more than most
peoples houses? Diamond cuff links?
Seriously, what the hell?
David and Marcie look at each other,
smile. Theres nothing to worry about,
Marcie says.
We have a plan, David pipes in.
A plan? You have a plan? Hey, guys,
Im your lawyer. The show is run
according to my plan.
 David casts me a cool look. Once
were in court, Mick, its all you. Your
speeches. Your questions. Your choice
of witnesses. Your strategy. But were
not in court yet. Were still out here, in
the real world. And Marcie and I are
taking measures of our own to win the
proverbial hearts and minds.
But youre not winning over anyone.
Didnt you see how everyone reacted to
your donation? Your speech? They
couldnt have turned their noses away
any faster if theyd walked into a room
full of dead skunks.
The donation and speech werent for
the people at this party, David answers.
They were for my jurors. The people
who will actually decide whether I
spend the rest of my life in prison. The
Philadelphians who live in shithole
neighborhoods, whose kids have the
highest drop-out rates in the country. The
people whose kids Ive just given a
million dollars to help.
Now Im steamed. First of all, most
Philadelphians do not live in shithole
neighborhoods. They live in working-
class neighborhoods, with decent
schools. Second, even the truly poor in
the city will see your gesture as
transparent. People will feel like youre
trying to buy them off. Tomorrow
morning theres going to be a big story in
the Inquirer portraying this gambit of
yours as nothing more than a bribe. How
do you think the jury pool will feel about
you then?
Weve taken care of the Inquirer,
Marcie says. And with that, she takes
David by the arm and leads him away.
Seeing them leave, Susan joins me.
That looked like it got pretty heated.
You better ratchet yourself down a little.
This place is full of photographers. You
dont want to see some nasty picture in
the paper tomorrow of you arguing with
our clients.
Piper approaches Susan and me at the
bar, and I excuse myself to go to the
mens room. As Im walking, Devlin
Walker comes up next to me, asks me
how my brothers doing. My hackles go
up instantly.
Speaking of Tommy, Devlin say,
hows his buddy Lawrence
Washington? I hear theyre close.
How would Tommy even know
Lawrence?
You think if we brought Tommy in,
he could give us some insight as to
where Lawrence is holed up?
Youre not bringing Tommy in, I
say. Ever.
Devlin shrugs. Well, he could just
come in voluntarily. Answer a few
questions.
Back off, Devlin, I say, then turn to
leave. Walking away, I make up my mind
that of all the people who will have to
pay to save my family from the Jennifer
Yamura fiasco, Devlin Fucking Walker
is going to suffer the most.
Later, in the hotel room after Piper falls
asleep, I toss and turn. At four, I sit up in
a cold sweat. I get off the bed, walk to
the bathroom, close the door. I turn on
the cold water, cup it in my hands, and
splash my face. For a long time, I stare
at myself in the mirror.
Mick? Its Piper calling me from
the bed. Are you all right?
I tell her Im fine, that something I ate
must have disagreed with me.
I climb back into bed. I lie on my
back, and Piper puts her arm around me,
her face on my chest. Were both quiet
but awake.
After a while, Piper says, Marcie
looked great. Didnt she?
Stunning.
Another minute passes, then I hear
Pipers voice, small and hesitant.
Whats going to happen, Mick?
The question hangs in the darkness
until I answer. Itll work out. I promise.
Itll all work out.
Piper hugs me tighter. She doesnt
believe me.

Later that morning, Sunday, Piper and I

enjoy breakfast in the restaurant on the
top floor of the hotel. The restaurant is a
grand space, composed of two large
rotundas with thirty-six-foot domes and
floor-to-ceiling windows. We sit at a
table for two next to one of the
windows, drink mimosas, and gorge
ourselves on Sunday brunch. We start
with smoked Scottish salmon, cheeses,
and salads from the caf table. Then
Piper has a Belgian waffle and I have
the crab-cake Benedict. We finish off
with mini cakes and parfaits. All the
while, we gossip like schoolgirls about
the dramas of the night before.
When were finished, I pick up an
Inquirer from the front desk and carry it
back to the room. While Piper packs, I
open the paper and look for the article
reporting David and Marcie Hansons
extravagant gift to the American Way. It
doesnt take long to find it; the article is
on page two, above the fold. The
reporter, a name unfamiliar to me,
gushes even more about the Hansons
than Candace Stengel had the night
before. And not just about last nights
gift. To the contrary, the article laundry-
lists a dozen other sizable donations
David and Marcie have made in the last
decade to organizations as diverse as
breastcancer.org, the Jewish Defense
League, the United Negro College Fund,
the Human Rights Campaign, Catholic
Charities USA, Planned Parenthood, the
Police Athletic League, Greenpeace, and
the SPCA.
What are you reading? Piper asks
me as she packs away her gown.
The biographies of Saints David and
Marcie, I answer. Then I return to the
article and the photographs of the
Hansons. The editors have chosen two
plain head shots. The pictures taken last
night of David and Marcie in their
formal wear and jewels have been deep-
sixed.
I sit back and wonder what theyre
planning next. And worry.
 24
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER
24

Its the Wednesday after the gala, just

before five oclock. Im sitting in my
office in front of my computer. Jury
selection in the Hanson trial begins in
three weeks, and Im working around the
clock getting the case ready. Ive begun
writing cross-examinations of the
prosecutions likely witnesses and direct
examinations of my own witnesses. Im
satisfied that I can poke some serious
holes in the prosecutions case. Not
enough to guarantee reasonable doubt,
but that wont matter if everything goes
as Im hoping and the jury never gets the
chance to reach a verdict.
A loud knock at the door, and Vaughn
rushes in.
Youre not going to believe this. He
hands me what appears to be a legal
brief, then drops into a visitors chair.
What is it?
Devlins filed a motion seeking to
disqualify you as Davids lawyer.
Youre fucking kidding me. On what
grounds?
The phone calls from Jennifer
Yamuras cell phone to our office.
Walker is claiming that they were from
David, that they prove he was at
Yamuras house, using her cell, within
the time period of her death.
Thats ridiculous, I say. Those
calls were from Jennifer herself. And
even if they had been from David, theyd
be privileged as attorney-client
communications.
Vaughn shakes his head. Not if they
were part of an effort to conceal a
crime.
Youre not telling me
Vaughn answers before I can
complete my question. Walkers
posturing to set you up as an accessory
after the fact.
 I dont believe this, I say, bolting
from my chair. Wait a minute. I move
over to my phone and hit 0 for Angie.
The day Jennifer Yamura was killed, I
tell my secretary, do you remember her
calling here and asking for me? And you
put her through? Angie says of course
she does. There! I say to Vaughn.
Devlins motion is bullshit, and we can
prove it.
But Vaughn, who has read Devlins
motion, leans into the speaker and asks,
Both times?
Theres a pause on the other end of
the line. Both times what? Angie asks.
She called here once. I put her through
to you, Mick, and you took the call.
Tommy was in your office with you; he
knows, too.
Shit, I say. Angie was at lunch the
second time she called. I picked up the
line myself. And Tommy had left by
then.
Vaughn frowns.
When is the hearing set for?
Two days.
I exhale. I cant believe Devlin is
pulling this kind of crap. He knows
Judge Henry isnt going to buy into this.
Hes up to something.

I work with Vaughn for several hours on

our answer to the prosecutions motion
to disqualify me. Once Vaughns gone, I
start in on a mound of other work and
dont lift my head until the City Hall
clock outside my window strikes
midnight. On the way home, I stop at a
Wawa. Piper had called me around ten,
saying we had no skim milk for her
coffee in the morning. An Inquirer
deliveryman drops off the next days
papers as I enter the store, and I take a
look at the front page to find that David
and Marcie continue to move full steam
ahead on the PR campaign. The new
article is just below the fold on the right-
hand side. Its a one-column article that
carries over to the business section,
where it takes up half the page. Its
headline reads, Hansons Quest for
Philly Jobs, and it tells how Davids
singular focus at HWI has been to
leverage the companys burgeoning
relationships in Asia to build
Philadelphias own manufacturing base.
Theres been too much foreign
outsourcing of jobs, David is quoted as
saying. My mission at HWI was, and
will be again, to reverse that tide and
bring jobs back home.
The articles author explains a
convoluted business deal David had
been working on before he began his
temporary leave of absence to
address his present personal
difficulties. The deal involved
Kimozuma Unryu, a Japanese shipping
company, along with Yokahama Tokai, a
Japanese manufacturer of sophisticated
navigation equipment, and the Chinese
steel giant Angong Steel. The way David
had negotiated it, HWI would purchase
navigation equipment from Yokahama
Tokai and steel from Angong Steel and
use both in the building of a fleet of
container ships that HWI would
assemble in Philadelphia, in partnership
with the Aker Philadelphia Shipyard.
Yokahama would buy the ships. It was to
have been a two-decade, multi-billion-
dollar deal that, in Davids words,
would have added three thousand jobs
in Philadelphia, forever. Continuing,
the article outlines two other similarly
complicated deals that would have
added thousands more jobs to the local
community.
 The linchpin of all of these deals,
the article concludes, was David
Hanson himself. Although technically
employed in HWIs legal department as
general counsel, Mr. Hanson was the
executive within the company who had
forged the personal relationships on
which all the Asian deals were built.
According to sources at HWI, until
Mr. Hanson returns, these deals will
remain on hold. Which is why,
Mr. Hanson says, I have pushed so hard
for a quick trial date on my own matter,
to ensure these deals are consummated
and the jobs are brought to
Philadelphia.
I drop the paper back onto the pile.
How many more stories have David and
Marcie Hanson planted to appear
between now and the time of Davids
trial? Will their plotting be limited to
stories in the news, or will it involve
more grandiose gestures as we get
closer to the courthouse steps?
Of course, the Hansons plans are not
the only thing I have to contend with.
Now Devlin Walker is trying to get me
booted from the case. And nothing could
be worse for anyone on our side than
that.
 25
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26

At 1:00 p.m. sharp, Angie buzzes me in

my office to tell me that David and
Marcie Hanson are here to discuss
Devlins attempt to cut me out of the
case. I ask Angie to bring them back.
The first thing David says to me when
Angie leads them into my office is, Did
you see the article? I wait for him and
Marcie to sit before I respond.
Yes, I answer coolly. And it was a
bad idea. If it ever comes out that you
were the one behind the story, that you
planted it to prejudice the jury pool, the
press itself will hang you.
Nothings going to come out,
Marcie says. Theres no way to trace
the story to David, or to me.
Theres always a way, I say. But
we really dont have time to be arguing
this. Right now we have to get ready for
this hearing.
Hey, just put me on the stand,
David says, and Ill deny I was the one
who called you. With your testimony that
should be enough, shouldnt it?
But I cant put you on the stand,
David, because that would subject you
to cross-examination. And the first thing
Devlin Walker will ask is where you
were at the time of the murders. Youd
have to disclose your alibi, tell the court
where you really were.
David leans into my desk. I dont
need an alibi to create reasonable doubt.
Ive reviewed the so-called evidence
over and over in my mind. They dont
have enough to convict. Theres no
evidence of motive. None whatsoever.
Because I had no motive to kill
Jennifer, he adds quickly. And with
that video safely tucked away, they have
no evidence that I was at the house
anywhere near the time she was killed.
And your attempt to clean up the
murder scene? I ask. And running
away when the cops showed up?
 I did all that out of panic, he says.
I was worried that my affair with
Jennifer would be revealed and that the
scandal would derail HWIs deals with
Japan and China.
The deals that would have created
so many jobs here, Marcie adds,
smiling. At least, thats what I read in
the paper.
I sigh. Theres no getting through to
these two. All the initial terror David
had displayed when he was first
arraigned has vanished. He is now fully
and foolishlyconfident that he will
be acquitted at trial.
By two oclock, were all in
Courtroom 1007 on the tenth floor of the
Criminal Justice Center. David sits next
to me at the counsel table, Marcie right
behind us. At the prosecution table,
Devlin is accompanied by ADA
Christina Wesley, a short, thick woman
whose face remains locked in a
perpetual frown. The courtroom is
nothing like the vast, grand courtrooms
in the movies. It is a small space:
spectators benches, counsel tables, jury
box, court reporters box, deputies and
law clerks desks crammed into a sixty-
by-forty-foot room. Its the courthouse
equivalent of an office cubicle. A close,
cramped space when populated only by
parties and lawyers, its positively
claustrophobic when packed with
spectators. Like today.
The Honorable William Henry sits on
the bench, his robe hanging loosely over
his shoulders. Hes not happy about the
prosecutions motion, and hes clearly
livid about the circus of reporters in his
courtroom.
Mr. Walker, Henry starts in on
Devlin, are you really serious about
this? You really think defense counsel
helped Mr. Hanson cover up the crime?
If theres another explanation,
Walker responds, the people are ready
to hear it.
This is my cue to shoot to my feet.
The state has already heard it, I
exclaim. Back at the end of August,
Detectives Tredesco and Cook came to
my office asking about the calls. I told
them then, and Im telling the court now,
that those calls were placed to me by
Jennifer Yamura herself. And I have in
the courtroom with me Mrs. Angela
Toscano, my secretary, who took the first
call, and who can testify that it was
Jennifer Yamura and not Mr. Hanson on
the other end. At the mention of her
name, Angie stands. I also have present
in the courtroom my brother and the
firms investigator, Mr. Thomas
McFarland, who was present when I
took the first call and to whom I
described the call once it was over.
Tommy is standing now, too. My heart
has been breaking for him since his
grave-site confession. As soon as the
Hanson case is over, Im going to sit
down with him and throw open the
floodgates of my guilt and shame at
having abandoned him.
Judge Henry looks from Tommy to
Angie to Devlin Walker. If these two
witnesses take the stand and testify, as
defense counsel has represented they
will, will that be enough for you?
Devlin hesitates, so the judge waves
him off and tells me to call my witnesses
and be done with this. So I call Angie to
the stand and then Tommy. Devlins
questioning of each is cursory. With
Angie, he simply makes a point of
confirming what Ive already told the
judge, that Angie took only the first call.
When Tommy takes the stand, he tells the
court he was in my office for the first
call, and that afterward, I told him it had
been Jennifer Yamura on the line. There
had been no mention of David Hanson,
and I didnt seem the least bit upset after
Id hung up. Devlin limits his cross-
examination to two questions, the first
one establishing that Tommy is indeed
my own brother, the second one
establishing that Tommy is a convicted
felon. Judge Henry rolls his eyes at the
first question and looks visibly annoyed
with Devlin over the second.
So, Mr. Walker, the judge says,
youve established that, one, Thomas
McFarland is biased, and two, he should
be ashamed of himself. How much
farther do we have to go with this?
Before Devlin can answer, I hear a
commotion behind me. I turn to see that
the reporters are all facing the back
doors. Detective John Tredesco, Edwin
Hanson, and Kevin Kratz, along with
two men and two women Ive never seen
before, have entered the courtroom. With
them is Caroline Robb, an assistant
district attorney with the DAs financial-
crimes unit.
David Hanson leans into me and asks,
What the hell is this?
I tell him I have no idea, although I
now understand what this hearing was
really all about. Inwardly, I smile.
Very clever, Devlin.
This is actually what I was hoping
for.
Your Honor, Devlin Walker
addresses the judge, I apologize and
ask the courts indulgence for one
minute. This could be very important.
Bill Henry is now officially pissed
off. One minute, counselor. And it
better be important.
Devlin and Christina Wesley confer
with Caroline Robb, who hands Devlin
some papers. Every now and then,
Devlin or Christina looks to the back of
the courtroom at Edwin, the two men, or
the two women. This is an actthe
whole thing. Devlin Walker knows
exactly who everyone is and what
theyre there for.
Your Honor, Devlin begins, in
light of the testimony by defense
counsels secretary and brother, the
people are willing to withdraw, for now,
our petition to remove Mr. McFarland as
defense counsel.
The motion is withdrawnand not
just for now. Judge Henry leans
forward. Now, who are all these
people?
Devlin takes a deep breath, as though
hes upset by what he has to tell the
court. Your Honor, I didnt want to
raise it with the court until I was
absolutely certain, but now I am. The
people have received strong evidence
that Mr. Hanson is planning to flee the
jurisdiction.
This stops everyone in the courtroom
cold.
This is bullshit, I say, shooting to
my feet.
 Your Honor, Devlin continues, his
voice soft and matter-of-fact, the
people have learned that Mr. Hanson has
been siphoning cash from personal and
corporate accounts, and
How much money? William Henry
interrupts.
Devlin waits before answering,
allowing the drama to build. Four.
Million. Dollars.
I hear several of the reporters gasp.
The court stenographers eyes bulge, and
the judges courtroom deputy does a
double take. David slumps in his seat.
Hes screwed, and he knows it. Judge
Henry stares down at me, then looks at
David. We have nothing, so the judge
looks back at Walker, who resumes.
 I have the CEO and the general
counsel of Hanson World Industries,
who will testify to the defendants
embezzlement of two million dollars
from HWI. Also here is Detective
Caroline Robb, from our financial-
crimes unit, to testify that the defendant
withdrew an equal amount from a
personal account in the Cayman
Islands.
And how did you know to go to
Hanson World Industries? asks the
judge.
Walker pauses before answering. We
received an anonymous call, he says,
causing Bill Henry to narrow his eyes. I
know, Your Honor. I know. At first, we
didnt give the call any credence. It
seemed too far-fetched to believe that
the defendant would do something so
transparent as withdrawing vast sums of
money on the eve of his trial. Still, we
had to follow up the lead. So I called
our financial-crimes unit and asked
Ms. Robb to call HWI and see if there
was anything to it. She reached
Mr. Kratz, who said the claim was
insane but that hed check into it. He got
back to us two days later and said that,
in fact, Mr. Hanson had personally taken
two million dollars in cash from the
vault of a corporate subsidiary near
Mexico City. We also learned that, from
Mexico, the defendant had the company
jet fly him to the city of George Town on
Grand Cayman Island, where he
withdrew two million more from a
numbered account in a private bank.
I know already how this is going to
turn out for David. The Philadelphia
criminal-court system has been plagued
by defendants failing to appear for trial
since the 1960s, when the court
abolished commercial bail as a result of
scandals involving private bail
bondsmen, leaving it to the court itself to
handle pretrial releases. In 2010, the
Inquirer presented an investigative
series showing that massive numbers of
arrestees ducked hearings after posting
10 percent of the bail amount.
Philadelphias FTA, or failure-to-appear
rate, was the highest in the nation. Forty-
seven thousand defendants were long-
term fugitives from the court, which was
owed more than $1 billion in forfeited
bail. To address this problem, the state
supreme court enacted changes in 2012
to help private bail firms finance bail,
based on studies showing that defendants
are more likely to show up for hearings
if bail is posted through private bail
bondsmen as opposed to being posted by
the defendants themselves. Taking their
cue from the state supreme court, the
Philly trial judges have taken a hard line
on defendants who skip out before trial.
Devlins first witness is Brad
Collins, an HWI pilot. Collins testifies
that he and a copilot flew David on a
company Gulfstream V from
Philadelphia International Airport to a
small private airstrip outside of Mexico
City.
Excuse me? Its Judge Henry. Hes
fully engaged now. Are you telling the
court that the defendant has recently left
the country? Since the time of his arrest
and arraignment?
David had to surrender his passport
and agree not to leave the country as a
condition of bail.
The pilot looks up at the judge. Well,
sure. Mr. Hanson had us fly him abroad
a few times, but that was to Japan. This
was the first time he had us go to
Mexico.
The judge glares at me and David
both, then tells the witness to continue.
Moving forward with his tale, Collins
explains that David boarded the plane
with two suitcases. He took one of the
suitcases with him, when he left the
plane in Mexico, while we refueled and
waited for him. Two hours later, when
Hanson returned, he carried the
suitcase like it was heavy. The pilots
then flew David to George Town on
Grand Cayman Island. This time he
took the second suitcase. When he left, it
looked empty. When he came back, it
was definitely full.
Then Devlin gives us the money shot.
Do you know what was in the
suitcases?
Collins hesitates, then lays it out.
Well, Jake the copilot and I got to
talking about what was in that first
suitcase while we were waiting for
Mr. Hanson in George Town. We didnt
want to be a part of anything illegal, like
drugs or who knows what. So we
decided to check and see what was in
that suitcase. There was no lock on it,
he adds. So we went back onto the
plane, and we unzipped the suitcase.
And it was filled with money. Hundred-
dollar bills.
Devlin pauses for this to sink in, then
sits.
I hit back at once with the only
answer I can think of to the pilots
testimony. But the important part is that
you, Mr. Collins, dont know what
Mr. Hanson was going to use the money
for, do you?
 Well, no. It was none of my
business.
At this, I practically shout. None of
your business? Well, that didnt stop you
from violating Mr. Hansons privacy by
riffling through his personal luggage in
the first place, did it?
Collins squirms. I stop here, hoping
that Devlin comes back with the obvious
rejoinder. He doesnt disappoint me.
One more question, Mr. Collins,
Walker begins on redirect. Since you
dont know what Mr. Hanson planned to
use the money for, would you object to
him telling us all now?
I object, as Devlin knew I would. But
he wasnt asking the question to get an
answer. He was making a point for
Judge Henry. If David wasnt going to
use the money for a nest egg once he fled
the jurisdiction, he needs to explain what
he was going to do with it.
Devlins second witness is Kevin
Kratz. My old classmate is even more
nervous than he was sitting across from
David Hanson at the American Way
gala. Throughout his direct examination,
Kevin uses his handkerchief to wipe
sweat from his face. I can see him
fighting the urge to glance at David, but
he cant help himself. He locks eyes
with David half a dozen times. Three
questions into direct examination,
everyone in the courtroom can see that
Kratz is absolutely petrified of David
Hanson.
 Devlin finishes up with Kevins
position at HWI and has Kratz explain to
the judge how he received the call from
the police departments financial-crimes
officer about whether David had taken a
large amount of company cash. I told
her it was impossible, Kevin explains.
That David was no longer with the
company. And that even if he were still
employed at HWI, he wouldnt have
cause to be handling company cash.
Still, I promised to check it out. The
officer told me that she thought the cash
may have been taken out of a subsidiary
in Mexico, so I began making calls.
Thats when I found out about the trip to
Mexico City, where he absconded with
two million dollars in cash from one of
our subsidiaries there, Azoteca
Comercial.
Objection, I say. Anything that
Mr. Kratz is claiming to have learned
from a third party not present in the
courtroom is hearsay.
Judge Henry thinks for a moment.
Overruled. Ill hear the testimony. If I
decide we need a representative from
Azoteca Comercial here to testify, Ill
order it, and well have a second day of
hearings. The judge then directs Kevin
to continue.
Of course, I took this information to
Mr. Hanson, Edwin Hanson, our CEO,
Kevin says. He was as shocked as I
was. He asked me if I knew of any other
money David might have made off with.
 I make a mental note of made off
with and absconded. Kevin is
peppering his speech with words and
phrases from a 1940s film-noir
screenplay. And this is when I realize
that Kevin Kratz has made a decision to
see that David, now down, stays down.
The only other money I knew about,
Kratz continues, is the money he parked
in the numbered accounts in the
Caymans. Years ago, David had asked
me to find out how to set up overseas
accounts there. He said he wanted to
hide . . . that is, place . . . some of his
money offshore. So I contacted some
banks and set up some accounts for
David. Then I helped David wire money
a number of times from accounts here in
the United States. A few times, David
asked me to transfer money from one of
the Cayman accounts to the other. Thats
when he gave me the passwords to the
accounts. So, when Edwin asked me
about other money, I told him about the
accounts, and I contacted the banks and
used the passwords to have them e-mail
me activity statements. I learned that the
same day he withdrew the money from
Azoteca Comercial, David withdrew
two million more from one of his
Cayman accounts. I reported this all
back to Edwin Hanson, who told me to
share it with the police.
Devlin has Kevin Kratz describe his
meetings with Caroline Robb, the
financial-crimes detective, to lay the
foundation for Robbs own testimony.
Then he turns my old classmate over to
me for cross-examination. I start to
stand, but David puts his hand on my
arm. I sit back down, and David
whispers in my ear, Leave it. I look at
him, puzzled. Im about to ask why, but
then I figure it out. Kevin Kratz has a lot
more dirt than just this on David.
Additional questioning only risks
opening a Pandoras box.
No questions, I say.
Judge Henry raises his eyebrows,
then tells Devlin to call his next witness.
Edwin Hanson takes the stand.
Walker has him identify himself as the
CEO of Hanson World Industries. Then
he asks Edwin if David is his brother.
 My half brother, Edwin says.
Devlin then gets down to business.
He has Edwin identify the account in
question as one belonging to Azoteca
Comercial, an HWI subsidiary
headquartered in Mexico City. From
there it gets a little dicey for Edwin,
who variously characterizes the money
sitting in Azoteca Comercial as a
discretionary spending fund,
nonallocated short-term capital, and
the corporate equivalent of a petty-cash
account. By this point, everyone in the
courtroom has figured out that HWI
likely set up the account as a slush fund
to hold money HWI needed to grease the
gears of the Mexican bureaucracyin
violation of the Foreign Corrupt
Practices Act.
Is there any conceivable corporate
purpose for the defendant, your half
brother, to have withdrawn two million
dollars in cash since his leave of
absence from the company? Devlin
asks.
None whatsoever.
Was the defendant traveling for a
corporate purpose when he flew to
Mexico City to withdraw the cash?
None whatsoever, Edwin repeats.
He had no business using that plane.
My cross-examination of Edwin is
short. I cant play up the dubious nature
of the account David plundered because
connecting David to a fund set up for an
illegal purpose would hurt him as much
as Edwin and HWI. Instead, I try to
undercut Edwins testimony that David
did not travel to Mexico for a company
purpose. It doesnt work.
Youve testified that my client took a
leave of absence pending his trial, I
begin.
It was that or be fired, Edwin
answers before I can complete the
sentence.
Yet your brother remains on the
companys board of directors, I
continue, ignoring Edwin. He is still
therefore technically performing
corporate functions.
Edwin leans forward and bores into
me with his dark wide-set eyes.
Mr. McFarland, let me make this clear.
David Hanson was notnoton
company business when he had our jet
fly him to Mexico. It was not for any
company purpose that he looted that
corporate account. None whatsoever. As
for his position on the board of
directors: it wont be for long. Ive
called an emergency meeting of the
board for tomorrow morning, and I can
assure you that, his inherited stock in our
company notwithstanding, my half
brother is going to lose his position. My
family is a large one, and we are all
very different people. But we will not
have our company used for disreputable
purposes. And we will not have it run by
disreputable people.
In my peripheral vision, I can see
Davids clenched jaw and fisted hands. I
feel the heat radiating from his face and
head. It is everything he can do not to
spring from his seat and throttle Edwin.
Easy, I lean in to him and whisper.
Then I stand to counter Edwins speech
with one of my own.
Objection, I say. I move to strike
the witnesss testimony in its entirety. It
was nothing more than a gratuitous slur
by a jealous brother. Jealous that his
younger sibling has managed to do in
just a few years what the witness himself
failed to do at the companys helm in
almost two decades. Namely, to build
solid relationships throughout Asia, and
to engineer deals that would haveand,
if justice is done in this case, still may
bring thousands of jobs and billions of
dollars to our local economy. Edwin
Hanson may be CEO of his familys
company, for now, but hes in no
position to deny my clients efforts, even
under the stress of an impending trial, to
further the companys interests and the
interests of our entire community.
Now its Devlins turn to object. He
demands that my own speech be stricken
from the record, complaining that Im
trying to poison the jury pool, just as my
client has been doing by planting stories
in the media. Walker and I shout at each
other, until finally Judge Henry brings us
all to order with the smashing of his
gavelsomething entirely out of
character for him. Behind me, the press
is having a field day. I hear at least a
dozen newsmen tap, tap, tapping the
screens of their iPads, writing down
everything thats going on. Im certain
that others are recording the whole
clusterfuck on their smartphones.
William Henry sits back in his chair
and closes his eyes. After a long minute,
he opens them and leans forward. All
right, lets cut to the chase. Were going
to assume that the witness from the DAs
financial-crimes unit will testify the way
Mr. Walker says she will. Is that okay
with you, Mr. McFarland, or do you
need it all played out in detail and on the
record?
For the purposes of this hearing,
Your Honor, and only this hearing, the
defense will stipulate that the witnesses
will so testify.
All right, then. William Henry
looks at me. He opens his hands and
waits. After a minute, still looking at me,
he says, Well?
I look up at the bench. Your Honor?
Come on, Mr. McFarland. You cant
figure out what Im looking for? Your
client has smashed the proverbial piggy
bank on the eve of trial. Hes withdrawn
four million dollars in cash. My question
should be obvious. If he didnt take the
money to help him flee, what did he take
it for?
Your Honor, I say, if Mr. Hanson
were planning to flee, he wouldnt
withdraw a bunch of cash. Hed just
wire the money to another account in a
bank located where he planned to go.
Maybe he did that, too, and we just
havent found out about it yet, Devlin
Walker pipes in.
Im still waiting, Mr. McFarland,
says the judge, ignoring Devlin.
Your Honor, Id like a minute to
speak with my client in private.
The court calls for a break and lets
me take David to a small conference
room just outside the courtroom. As
soon I close the door, David starts in on
me. Youve killed me! Youve fucking
killed me! What the hell are we going to
say? Whats our answer? That I needed
the money to pay off a blackmailer who
had a DVD of me at Jennifers house
right around the time she was killed?
David
You know what? Fuck it! Thats
exactly what were going to do. Well go
back into the courtroom and tell
everyone about that fucking recording. It
doesnt prove I killed her. It doesnt
prove anything. Come on! David
brushes past me toward the door, but I
reach out and grab him by the arm.
Are you out of your mind? That
video will hang you. No one can ever
know anything about it. No one can find
out you were at Jennifers house at the
time of the murder.
Find out? Everyone out there,
everyone in the whole city, already
thinks thats exactly where I was when
Jennifer was killed.
But they dont know. Some of them
think it. Some believe it. But no one
knows for a fact that you were there that
afternoon. And it has to stay that way for
you to have any chance of staying out of
prison.
But thats what this whole hearing is
all about. If we dont come up with some
answer for the moneys purpose, that
judge is going to have me carted me off
to county lockup. Today. Right now.
Right? Right?
I lower myself to one of the scratched
metal seats around the scratched metal
conference table. Sit down, David.
Please. We have to think this through.
David remains standing, rubs his
hands through his hair, then sits at the
end of the table. I cant believe this is
happening, he says. I just cant believe
it.

Thirty minutes after he called the break,

Judge Henry is back on the bench. David
and I are at the defense table. Devlin
Walker and Christina Wesley are seated
at the prosecution table, their witnesses
and a smiling John Tredesco behind
them. On my side of the courtroom,
Marcie Hanson sits in the first row of
seats behind the bar. Tommy and Angie
are a few rows behind her. Only two
things are different. First, there are even
more reporters than were here before the
break. Apparently, the word is out that
bloods being spilled. Second, two
sheriffs deputies have appeared and are
standing by the doors in the back of the
courtroom.
Have you had a chance to consult
with your client? the judge asks me.
I have, Your Honor. And all I can
say is that Mr. Hanson is well known
around the world as a philanthropist.
Hes also a man of his word, and he has
no intention of betraying the uses to
which he donated that money.
Devlin springs to his feet.
Objection! Counsel is testifying. He
doesnt dare put his client on the stand,
so hes blowing a smoke screen.
 Judge Henry, now visibly spent,
interrupts. Mr. McFarland, is your
client going to take the stand or not?
Evading the question, I stay on
message. Your Honor, Mr. Hanson had
no intention, has no intention, of fleeing
the jurisdiction. He very much wants his
day in court, he wants the chance to be
here to dispute the specious charges
brought against him.
Bill Henry doesnt skip a beat. Then
lets make sure he gets his wish. I am
revoking the defendants bail and
remanding him to the county prison, to
remain there until and through the
duration of his trial. With that he nods
to the two deputies, who walk to the
front of the courtroom, cuff David, and
lead him out the side door, their
destination the holding cells in the
subbasement. David will stay there until
five oclock, at which time he will be
loaded into the sheriffs bus and
transported to the Curran-Fromhold
Correctional Facility in Northeast
Philadelphia.
I watch Davids exit, watch him hold
his head high, keep his back straight,
trying to retain as much dignity as he
can. Before the deputies close the door
behind them, David glances back into the
courtroom. Ive seen the last glance
from dozens of defendants, seen the
guilt, sorrow, regret, fear, numbed
disbelief plastered all over their faces
as they take in a final look at the loved
ones theyre leaving behind, sometimes
for good. But David isnt looking back
in sadness or distress. And he isnt
looking at Marcie. His eyes hold only
hatred for his real enemy. For Edwin.
According to David, it was Edwin who
placed the anonymous call to the DAs
office. Somehow, his half brother had
found out about his taking the money
from the Mexican subsidiary and tipped
off the prosecution.
I look from one brother to the other.
Then, in my peripheral vision, I see two
other people watching David. The first
is Marcie. Her eyes are narrowed, her
lips turned down, but her head, like
Davids, is held high. Resolve. The
second person whose eyes I see locked
on David surprises me. Its Tommy. Hes
standing in the back of the courtroom,
legs spread apart, arms crossed.
Tommys lips are turned up in a smirk.
Chambers in ten minutes, the judge
announces from the bench, summoning
counsel for both sides into his private
office.
When I arrive at the judges chambers
on the twelfth floor, I find only Devlin
Walker in the waiting area. He mustve
sent Christina Wesley and Caroline
Robb back to the DAs office. Bill Henry
nods to his law clerk as soon as we sit,
and she hands Devlin and me a sheaf of
papers.
Ive ruled on your omnibus motion,
Mr. McFarland, the judge begins before
I have a chance to scan his order.
The Pennsylvania Rules of Criminal
Procedure require defense attorneys to
put all their requests for relief into one
all-encompassing, or omnibus, motion.
I submitted ours weeks ago, as did
Devlin. Among Devlins requests was
that the court exclude the evidence of the
burglaries in Jennifer Yamuras
neighborhood during the weeks before
and after her murder. Judge Henry tells
us hes reserving his ruling on that
motion, that he will wait and see how
strong the other evidence is supporting
the defense theory that Jennifer may have
been murdered as part of a burglary gone
bad.
The judge then turns to my requests
and announces his decision to exclude
any evidence of the calls to my office
from Jennifer Yamuras cell phone
during the time period within which she
was murdered. There is no proof that
Mr. Hanson made those calls, he
explains. In fact, we know from
Ms. Toscanos testimony that the first
call was definitely not from Mr. Hanson.
As to the second call, any probative
value is outweighed by the unfair
prejudice to the defense should the calls
be allowed into evidence.
In my omnibus motion, I also asked
the court to exclude all of Davids
clothing, collected upon his arrest, on
the grounds that the police had lacked
probable cause to arrest him. My
argument was that although David was
caught fleeing Jennifers apartment, it
was hours after her death. And, I
contended, the police had no business
being there in the first place because the
911 phone call tipping them offin
which the caller claimed hed heard
sounds of a strugglehad to have been a
ruse, because by that time, Yamura had
been dead for hours. I also asked the
court to exclude Davids statement at the
police station that hed been at work all
afternoon, also on the grounds that the
police had no probable cause to arrest
my client. Finally, I asked for a change
of venue to Pittsburgh or Williamsport,
arguing that the pretrial publicity had
irredeemably poisoned the jury pool
against him.
I expected the court to deny my first
two requests. Our appellate courts have
found probable cause to arrest on far
less evidence than the defendant fleeing
the scene of the murder after being
caught red-handed trying to clean it up. I
am a bit surprised, however, when the
judge announces that hes denying my
change-of-venue request, until he
explains himself.
I was all but ready to move this case
out of Philadelphia, Judge Henry says,
looking at me, until I saw all those
well-placed articles in the newspaper
about your clients wonderful gifts to
charity and his personal mission to bring
jobs back to the city. How could any
reader think ill of Mr. Hanson after
reading those articles? In my mind, those
stories more than made up for the
prosecutions anonymous tip to the
newspapers about Mr. Hansons love
nest in New York.
That was not us, Your Honor,
Devlin interjects.
Even so, I interrupt, ignoring
Walker, the court must surely recognize
that it will be impossible for Mr. Hanson
to find an unbiased jury given the
prosecutions latest motion and
Mr. Hansons imprisonment on the eve
of trial.
Oh, no, no, Mr. McFarland. Bill
Henry shakes his head and smiles. Your
client brought that on himself. Violating
his bail terms by jet-setting all over the
globe. Withdrawing millions of dollars
just weeks before a trial that might wind
him up in prison for the rest of his life.
No, counsel, this case is here to stay.
And Mr. Hanson will be here, too. Of
that we can now be sure.
He can always plead, Devlin says.
Ive told defense counsel well accept
voluntary manslaughter if Mr. Hanson
admits to accidentally killing the victim.
Of course, hed have to produce the
victims laptop and other missing items.
The judge thinks for a minute, then
asks Devlin, You think he got into a
fight with the decedent? Lost control and
pushed her down the stairs?
I think it was premeditated, and he
should go away for first-degree murder.
But if the defendant can convince me Im
wrong, Ill let him plead to the lower
charge.
Can we leave now, Your Honor? I
ask. I dont like this little exchange about
my clients guilt between the prosecutor
and the judge.
Bill Henry appraises me, then turns to
Devlin. Im not so sure the defendant is
guilty of anything, Mr. Walker. Devlin
blinks at this and is about to chime in
when the judge stops him. Im bothered
by all these anonymous phone calls. The
one that tipped you off that Mr. Hanson
was hoarding cash. The one about the
New York love nest. And, most of all,
the 911 call on the night of the murder.
Everyone in this room knows that there
couldnt have been yelling and sounds of
a struggle when the victim had been
dead for hours. Obviously, theres
another person involved in all of this.
And whoever that person is, theyre out
to get Mr. Hanson. They made sure the
police showed up to catch him trying to
destroy evidence. They made sure the
whole world knew about his penchant
for Asian mistressesdont think for
one minute, Mr. McFarland, that I was
fooled by that dog-and-pony show your
client put on about sponsoring gifted
foreign-exchange studentsand, finally,
they blew the whistle on his jet-setting
money junket.
All of which Im planning to
highlight in my opening statement, I say,
which causes Devlin to squirm in his
seat.
Well? The judge looks at Walker,
meaning, Whats your answer to all
that?
With all due respect, Your Honor,
Devlin says, I dont think this is the
appropriate forum to get into trial
strategy.
This makes Bill Henry smile. Then he
leans forward and looks from Walker to
me. I want to make something very
clear to both of you. There has been
more posturing in this case, both in court
and in the public, than I can remember
for a long time. That posturing is now
over. Do you hear me? Mr. McFarland?
Mr. Walker? We both say yes. Good.
Because whatever happens in this case,
whatever result the jury reaches, I will
not have it said that the defendant did not
receive a fair trial. With that, William
Henry shoos Devlin Walker and me out
of his office.
My adversary and I walk to the
elevators in silence. We descend without
a word. Devlin, I can tell, is waiting for
me to start in on him, harangue him about
throwing my client in jail on the eve of
trial, tainting the jury pool. Instead, I
wait for the doors to open, turn to the
prosecutor, and smile. That hearing, the
whole money thing, I say. Brilliantly
played, Devlin. Brilliantly played.
Devlins mouth drops, and his eyes
fill with confusion.
I tell him to have a nice day and leave
the elevator ahead of him, the smile still
on my face.
David and Marcie Hanson arent the
only ones who can place anonymous
calls.
 26
MONDAY, NOVEMBER
12

David Hanson has been stewing in jail

for more than two weeks. Today, the trial
begins. Courtroom 1007 is packed. All
four of the hard, black benches in the
spectators gallery are filled. At the
prosecution table, Devlin Walker sits
motionless, eyes closed, elbows on the
table, hands together and formed into a
steeple, his two index fingers touching
his lips. To his left lies the jury box,
where the jurors will enjoy an
unobstructed view of the prosecutor
throughout the trial. To his right sits
Christina Wesley, doing her best to look
as thoughtful as her boss, not quite
pulling it off.
On the first row of benches behind the
bar on the prosecutions side are John
and Margaret Yamura and her brother,
Brian. Mr. and Mrs. Yamura sit ramrod
straight in their seats, eyes locked
forward. Ive read that both are in their
early sixties, but the shock of their
daughters violent death and the months
of grief have taken a toll, and they look
older. Brian Yamura caught me glancing
at him and his parents when I first came
into the courtroom. I saw at once the
intelligence in his eyesand the
hostility. Brian recognized me for what I
am to him and his family: the enemy. The
man working to ensure that his sisters
killer escapes justice.
David and I are at the defense table,
across the aisle from the prosecutors. I
am closest to the jurors; David is to my
right. Susan, at my request, is absent
from the courtroom. I dont want her
anywhere near this trial. Yet. Her time
will come, I hope. If not, it will be
because this whole spectacle imploded
like a black hole. To ensure that doesnt
happen, I have secured the presence of
the iconic attorney Alexander Ginsberg.
Ive told David and Marcie that I hired
him to watch the trial and give me his
daily read on how things are going for
us. Alexanders real mission is quite
different.
Ginsberg sits right behind the defense
table, next to Marcie Hanson. On
Marcies other side, Vaughn Coburn sits;
he will take notes and discuss the
progress of the case with me every day
after trial. Before the jury comes in, I
glance back at my team. Ginsberg smiles
at me. Marcie nods imperceptibly. Ive
told her never to smile anywhere in the
courthouse, or in public. No onenot
the jury, not the press, not the public, not
the judgemust perceive her as anything
but serious and respectful. She and
David both must display the crushing
burden the charges have placed on their
shoulders. What they must not display,
Ive told them, is their wealth. Gone
from Davids finger and wrist are his
gold signet ring and Rolex watch.
Missing from Marcie is her five-carat
Tiffany diamond engagement ring. Her
visible jewelry consists only of her gold
wedding band and a pair of modest pearl
earrings. She is dressed at my instruction
in a conservative gray pantsuit with a
vest and white shirt buttoned at the
collar. I will have no female jurors
envious of Marcies legs or bust. David
is wearing a blue off-the-rack Brooks
Brothers suit with a white shirt, maroon
tie, and black wingtips. The type of suit
you see but dont notice.
There is one more person whose
presence in the courtroom has special
importance. Sitting in the second row of
benches, behind Marcie, Vaughn, and
Alexander Ginsberg, is Piper. Its been
years since shes attended one of my
trials. But I made a point of asking her to
attend Davids trial. I told her it would
mean a lot to me. I didnt tell Piper I
needed her there to witness the case
crashing down around us.
Davids imprisonment three weeks
before the trial had caused a feeding
frenzy in the press. The headlines in the
Inquirer and Daily News screamed:
Hanson Imprisoned: DA Claims
Millionaire Preparing to Flee and
Hanson Withdrew Millions in Cash on
Eve of Trial and Accused Geisha
Killer Readies Corporate Jet to Flee.
None of the articles reported my
insinuation at the hearing that David had
used the money to fund charities. All of
them played up his plane flight to
Mexico, where he landed at the same
private airstrip employed by cartel drug
runners. One story colorfully painted a
picture of Davids Learjet escaping
Philadelphia late at night in a driving
rainstorm. It used terms like lurking
and dodging and absconding, and
referred to David as a fugitive.
It took four days to pick the jury. Our
panel of twelve jurors and four
alternates are from all parts of the city,
all walks of life. Kensington, South
Philly, West Philly, the Northeast,
Rittenhouse Square, the art-museum
area, and Old City. A schoolteacher, a
nurse, an aerobics instructor, a college
track coach, a car salesman, the manager
of a Wawa, a college student, a retired
businessman, a FedEx driver, a building
security guard, a retired insurance
salesman, a hairstylist, a retired
accountant, an unemployed truck driver,
an unemployed factory worker, and a
reporter for the Daily News. Ten men,
six women. Five whites, nine blacks,
two Hispanics. No Asian AmericansI
made sure of that.
Judge Henry used Friday afternoon to
hear arguments and rule on my motion to
prohibit the prosecutor from presenting
Edwin and the HWI pilots to testify to
Davids withdrawal of money on the eve
of trial. I argued that the issue of Davids
supposed plans to flee was a straw man
that would serve only to poison the jury
against him. But the court bought
Devlins argument that Davids actions
evidenced a consciousness of guilt. If
you feel that strongly that the evidence is
misleading, Bill Henry told me, you
can present your client to explain to the
jury what his actual intentions were for
the money.
Judge Henry enters through a door at
the rear of the courtroom and takes his
seat on the bench. Framing him on the
back wall are the American flag on his
right and the state flag on his left.
Directly behind and above the judge
hangs the blue-and-gold seal of the
Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Please bring in the jury, Judge
Henry says to his deputy, Mike Holleran.
Everyone remain seated while the jury
enters the courtroom, he tells the rest of
us. Holleran knocks on a door on the
back wall of the courtroom, to the left of
the bench. The door opens and, one by
one, our special sixteen file into the
courtroom and take their seats. Once
theyre in position, most of them glance
at Devlin and me. All of them look at
David. The juror sitting in the first seat
in the first row, our presumptive
foreman, is the retired businessman. His
name is Peter Drummond. Hes seventy-
one years old and a former member of
the Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce.
Drummond has a full head of silver hair
and has come to court dressed in a
button-down shirt under a deep-blue
blazer over charcoal slacks. His face is
square and distinguished looking,
reminiscent of John Forsythe of the old
TV series Dynasty.
Good morning, ladies and
gentlemen, Judge Henry greets the jury.
The jurors say Good morning or nod
and smile. His Honor spends about half
an hour giving the jury preliminary
instructions, telling them what our daily
schedule will be: 9:00 a.m. sharp to
5:00 p.m., with an hour for lunch, a
fifteen-minute break in the morning, and
a fifteen-minute break in the afternoon.
And Bill Henry means it. He tries a full
day, every day.
And now we will start the trial with
the attorneys opening statements. The
statements themselves are not evidence,
and you are not to consider them as
evidence. Rather, these statements are
counsels explications of what they
expect the evidence will show. Judge
Henry speaks for another few minutes
and then turns to Devlin. Is the
prosecution ready? Walker states that
he is, and the court nods for him to
begin.
The prosecutor rises from his seat
and buttons his jacket. Dressed in a
three-button black suit, white
herringbone dress shirt, black-and-
white-striped tie, black-and-white
porcelain cuff links, and gleaming black
loafers, Devlin has an American flag pin
on his lapel and his hair freshly cut close
to his head. He moves slowly to the
center of the courtroom, pauses for a
moment before the bench, and says,
May it please the court. Judge Henry
nods, and Devlin turns to his left and
walks up to the jury box. Careful not to
invade the jurors space, he plants
himself four feet from the box. A
portable lectern is available, but Devlin
has chosen not to use it. He has no notes.
Hes going to be speaking from the heart.
Devlin sighs, showing the jurors
theres no joy in what he has to do on
behalf of the people, but that hes still
going to see it through, for all of our
sakes.
Good morning, ladies and
gentlemen, Devlin says, then pauses.
The jurors respond to him. Most of the
women smile. Most of the men nod. I
come before you today to obtain justice
for a murdered young woman. Jennifer
Yamura, a bright woman with a
promising future, whose parents worked
hard to raise and educate her. Devlin
pauses again, turns toward the Yamura
family, gives the jury the chance to see
who theyre really fighting for. Jennifer
Yamura, whose life was stolen from her
by a man who would have you see him
as some sort of public benefactor. I
want to object here, but I know Devlin is
baiting me to do it, hoping to get the jury
to see me as disruptive. Devlin makes a
few more gratuitous remarks about
Davids wealth and privilege, then
moves to the heart of the case.
Thursday, May thirty-first, at 11:30
p.m., Officer Tim Kujowski and Officer
Nicholas Pancetti are traveling south in
their patrol car on Pine Street when they
get a call from dispatch to go to 1792
Addison Street, on a report of a
disturbance. They get out of the car, see
the lights are on, hear someone inside
running a vacuum cleaner. Officer
Kujowski knocks on the door, and the
vacuum stops. From inside, someone
tells them to hold on, but he never
answers the door. Officer Kujowski
knocks on the door again. Still, no one
appears, so Kujowski runs around back.
He gets to the back of Jennifer Yamuras
house just in time to see a tall, well-built
man running out the back door. The
defendant. David Hanson. Officer
Kujowski tells him to stop, but the
defendant keeps on running. But
Kujowski was a track star in high
school, and the defendant doesnt get far.
Called by his partner, Officer
Pancetti checks to make sure that Officer
Kujowski has secured the defendant,
then walks inside the open kitchen door,
calling out to anyone who might still be
inside. In the kitchen, Officer Pancetti
sees that the dishwasher is running and
the sink is full of water, suds, and
dishes. Moving into the living room,
Officer Pancetti sees the vacuum
cleaner. On the coffee table he sees a
can of lemon Pledge, a bottle of Windex,
and some rags. By now its obvious to
Officer Pancetti that Mr. Hanson had
been trying to clean the place. Officer
Pancetti searches the rest of the house.
He starts with the second floor. Then he
looks for the basement. The doorway is
covered by a curtain of yellow glass
beads. Officer Pancetti pushes the beads
aside, and he sees Jennifer Yamura lying
faceup on the steps. Her eyes are open.
Blood has drained from the back of her
head, down the steps, and pooled onto
the floor.
Officer Pancetti calls Officer
Kujowski on the radio, tells him what
hes found, then calls dispatch for
backup. He asks dispatch to send the
detectives and the crime-scene
investigation unit.
Within thirty minutes, Detectives
John Tredesco and Ed Cook arrive at the
house. They make a cursory examination
of the premises, being careful not to
disturb itat least not to disturb it any
more than the defendant already has.
Then they turn the scene over to the CSU
team, take the defendant into custody,
and transport him to the station house.
There, the defendant does two things.
First, he lies and says he was at his
office all day. Youll hear from his
secretary that that isnt true. Second, he
demands to speak to his attorney and
clams up until Mr. McFarland arrives.
Fast-forward four months. The trial
in this case is less than a month away.
The defendant has been out on bail since
the murder. A main condition of bail was
that he forfeit his passport and promise
not to leave the country. But the
defendant is about to face you folks, and
he knows it. A Learjet lands on a private
airstrip outside of Mexico City. The
planes door opens. David Hanson
descends the stairs to the tarmac, takes a
limo to a company known as Azoteca
Comercial, where he enters the
corporate vault and physically makes off
with two million dollars in cash. Then
he has the pilots fly him to the Cayman
Islands, where he withdraws another
two million dollars from his own
personal offshore accounts.
David Hanson fleeing from the scene
of the murder after getting caught trying
to disinfect it of every trace of himself.
David Hanson lying to the police
about where hed been at the time of
Jennifers murder.
David Hanson preparing to flee from
the jury on the eve of trial.
Damning stuff. And now that hes
grabbed the jurors hearts, Devlin lays it
out for their minds, methodically
previewing each witness he intends to
present, and what each witness will say.
Finally, sixty minutes after he began,
Devlin concludes by lifting onto an easel
a large color photograph of Jennifer
Yamura. The picture depicts the young
woman in her college cap and gown,
standing between her proud parents.
Jennifer Yamura had the whole
world open to her that day she
graduated, Devlin says. She could
have gone anywhere to pursue her dream
of becoming a journalist. She chose to
come here, to Philadelphia. Our city,
yours and mine. The City of Brotherly
Love. The city Jennifer Yamura came to
love. The city she came to fight for as a
journalist, exposing crime and
corruption, working for the betterment of
our schools, the integrity of our
government, the safety of our streets. In
the short time she was with us, Jennifer
never let this city down, and this city
isnt going to let her down. Devlin
pauses, takes the time to look each and
every juror in the eyes, then turns and
walks slowly back to his seat.
I want to give my opening right away,
not allow Devlins speech to congeal in
the jurors minds, but Judge Henry lets
the jury take a fifteen-minute midmorning
break.
When we come back, we repeat the
same routine. The judge takes the bench,
has Mike Holleran summon the jury to
take their seats. Like Devlin, I walk
slowly, pay my respects to the court,
then take my place before the jury. No
notes. Good morning, I say. I pause to
see how they respond. No one smiles. A
few say, Good morning. A few nod.
Most look down, or over at Devlin.
I inhale, wait a beat, then begin.
Ladies and gentlemen, it was my
privilege for twelve years to work as a
Philadelphia district attorney.
I pause and let my words sink in. I
want the jury to see from the start that,
like my opponent, I was the peoples
servanttheir servantfor many years.
I want them to see me as one of the good
guys. And, importantly, I want them to
know that I know what Im talking about
when it comes to how the police should
investigate crimes, because thats going
to be a major theme of my defense.
 As a prosecutor, I was privileged to
work with some of the finest police
officers ever to serve our city. And what
made those officers so good, every one
of them, was this: They never stopped
short. They never took the easy way out
of an investigation by latching on to the
first possible suspect. They turned over
every stone, questioned every potential
witness, took the time to investigate and
rule out every possible perpetrator, to
make sure they didnt bring an innocent
man to trial. Didnt destroy his
reputation. Didnt force him to suffer
through the hell of living with the threat
of false imprisonment hanging over his
head. Didnt
Objection. Devlin is on his feet. We
both know Ive crossed the line into
improper argument, and Walkers own
opening has won him more than enough
political capital with the jury to object
during my openingone of the
advantages of going first. The judge
sustains the objection, and I continue.
Without belaboring the point, I say,
my voice now quiet, the police officers
I served with did exactly what the
officers who investigatedI use my
fingers to make air quotes around the
termJennifer Yamuras tragic death
failed to do. Detective John Tredesco,
the detective in charge, in particular,
latched on to David Hanson to the
exclusion of all other possible suspects.
And the evidence will be clear that there
were many very dangerous people who
had reason to both hate and fear Jennifer
Yamura. The prosecutor made reference
to Jennifers work as a reporter who
exposed corruption and tried to make
our streets safer. And many in this city
know, as you will hear witnesses testify,
about Jennifer Yamuras work as a
reporter in exposing a ring of crooked
police officers, men who violated their
sacred duty to protect us by banding
together with drug dealers to flood the
citys streets with drugs. One of those
officers, Stanley Lipinski, testified
before the grand jury against his fellow
conspirators, publicly dared his criminal
friends to come and get him, and they
did, gunning him down on the street.
 I have no proof that Lipinski was
killed by any of the crooked cops, and
Devlin knows it. He has the right to
object, but hes holding back, not
wanting to look obstreperous to the jury.
As the prosecutor has told you,
Detective Tredesco is going to testify
that he didnt need to consider other
potential defendants because the police
caught Mr. Hanson, quote, red-handed
running out of Jennifer Yamuras house.
The defense theory is that Mr. Hansons
running awayand his trying to clean up
the murder scene itselfshows
consciousness of guilt. But youre going
to hear the detectives themselves admit
that Ms. Yamura had been dead for at
least eight hours by the time they
discovered Mr. Hanson at her house.
The prosecution will also concede
that Mr. Hanson had a strong motive to
cover up his involvement with
Ms. Yamura that had nothing to do with
murder. Mr. Hanson, a married man, was
having an affair with Ms. Yamura. Now,
Im not going to ask you to excuse or
forgive Mr. Hanson for his affair. Only
his wife, Marcie, can do that. And she
has, which is why shes here today,
supporting her husband.
This is an important point for me to
make to the jurors, especially the
women. David was a rake. But hes a
good enough man that his wife was
willing to forgive him for the affair and
stand by his side.
 And although an affair is not and has
never been proof of murder, I continue,
it provides a man a powerful motive to
hide evidence of his involvement with a
woman. I pause to let this sink in. But
Mr. Hanson also had a second reason to
try to cover up his affair with
Ms. Yamura, and youll hear this from
one of the prosecutions own witnesses,
Edwin Hanson, the CEO of Hanson
World Industries. Now, Edwin Hanson
has no love for his half brother, but he
will admit that at the time David Hanson
discovered Jennifers body, David was
on the verge of sewing up one of the
largest international business deals in
HWIs history. A deal that would have
brought thousands of jobs and countless
millions of dollars to our city. A deal
that would have propelled David into a
position of high leadership at Hanson
World Industries, despite the hatred of
his jealous brother, Edwin. And Edwin
Hanson will admit that any threat of
scandal might have put the deal on ice.
And, indeed, it has. This very complex,
very fragile business arrangement that
would have brought vast benefits to our
city was stopped in its tracks the minute
the district attorney jumped the gun and
charged David Hanson with the murder
of Jennifer Yamura.
So its no wonder that David Hanson
tried to clean the Addison Street house
after he discovered his lovers long-
dead body, or that he tried to flee once
the police arrived. But there is
something at the very heart of this case
that shouldand willcause every one
of you to wonder. A gaping hole at the
center of the prosecutions theory that
David Hanson was the one who killed
Jennifer Yamura. Im speaking of the 911
phone call. The call placed from a
disposable, untraceable phone, a burner
phone of the type used by drug dealers
and other career criminals.
The prosecutor glossed over it in his
opening. He said that the police showed
up at 1792 Addison Street in response to
a call about a disturbance. What
Mr. Walker failed to tell you was that
this phone calland you will hear it for
yourself on tapedemonstrates that
someone other than David Hanson knew
that David was in Jennifers house that
night. That Jennifer Yamura was dead.
And that someone was out to make very,
very sure that the police arrived to catch
David in the house with Jennifers
body.
Here I take some time to explain how
the anonymous caller claimed to have
heard people shouting and the sounds of
things crashingall of which was
impossible, as Jennifer had been dead
for hours.
Who was this caller? And why was
he so determined to have the police
seize David as the prime suspect? Was it
the real murderer? Or someone who
knew the real murderer and sought to
protect them by misdirecting the police?
One of the corrupt police officers who
wanted Yamura dead to stop her
investigation? One of David Hansons
many powerful enemies in the business
world? Or was it a burglar Jennifer
caught in the act of breaking into her
homemaybe the same burglar whod
recently broken into other homes in her
neighborhood? Well never know,
because the police never followed up to
find out. But he almost certainly was
watching the house after killing Jennifer
Yamura, which gave him the opportunity
to blame it on David Hanson.
Im pouring it on thick now. And
Devlin Walker could properly have
objected at any number of points. But
Devlin believes hes holding all the
cards. Hes letting me grandstand the
way a tolerant parent lets a child throw a
temper tantrum, knowing it will come to
nothing.
And then theres the other gaping
hole in the prosecutions case. The
complete absence of motive. I waited
throughout the prosecutors opening
statement to hear what the state had
conjured up as Mr. Hansons supposed
motive for killing Ms. Yamura. But it
never came. There will be no witnesses
testifying that Mr. Hanson and
Ms. Yamura had a falling-out. No
witnesses testifying that they were seen
fighting or arguing, that their relationship
was a volatile one rather than a smooth
relationship of convenience. If the
prosecutors opening speech accurately
laid out the case he intends to prove, you
will not hear one word speaking to any
reason that Mr. Hanson would have
wanted to kill Ms. Yamura.
In the end, what you will be left with
is this. First, that Jennifer Yamura was
murdered. Everyone agrees to this.
Second, that Mr. Hanson was having an
affair with Ms. Yamura. Everyone
agrees to this. And third, that
Mr. Hansons attempt to clean the
Addison Street house of all evidence of
his presence and his attempt to flee when
the police arrived was consistent with
his wanting to hide the evidence of his
affair with the victim.
 The prosecution has a heavy burden.
But its their burden. Never lose sight of
that. Equally important, know that only
your acquittal of David Hanson will
allow the police to find the real killer of
Jennifer Yamura. I turn toward the
Yamura family. And that her family will
get the justice they deserve.
Jennifers father looks into my eyes,
his own eyes filled with turmoil and
pain. I hold Mr. Yamuras gaze for a
moment, then turn back to the jury, say
thank you, and take my seat.
I dont think Ive ever felt worse
about myself than I do right now.
 27
MONDAY, NOVEMBER
12, CONTINUED

Judge Henry recesses for lunch. During

the break, my team and I gather around
the defense table.
I think you gave the jury some things
to think about, Alexander Ginsberg
says. But its going to be an uphill
battle.
It was a good opening, Mick. Thank
you. Marcies smiling, but her eyes
remain sharp, steely.
Shes watching me like a hawk. Me
and everyone else. I was right to plant
Ginsberg next to her, to whisper doubts
in her ear as the case moves forward.
Worry her.
An hour later, everyone is back in
their seats. Devlins first witness is Tim
Kujowski. With only three years on the
force, Kujowski is the youngest of the
officers involved in the investigation. He
looks sharp in his crisp blue uniform and
buzz-cut blond hair. A Boy Scout.
Devlin quickly runs Kujowski through
the preliminarieshow long hes been
on the force, what district he works out
of, what time he reported to duty. Then
he gets to the meat.
Did there come a time that night
when you received a call from dispatch
telling you and your partner to
investigate a possible disturbance at
1792 Addison Street?
It was about 11:30. Officer Pancetti
and I were close by, so it only took a
couple of minutes to get to the address.
And what did you observe when you
got out of the patrol car? What did you
and Officer Pancetti do?
The lights were on. I could hear a
vacuum cleaner running. I went up the
steps and knocked on the door. The
vacuum kept going, so I knocked harder.
The vacuum stopped, and whoever was
inside told us to hold on. We waited a
minute, and the door still didnt open, so
Officer Pancetti told me to go around
back. I jogged to Eighteenth, took a right,
and then took a right down Waverly,
which is the little street behind Addison.
I got to 1792 just in time to see a tall
man bolt out the back door. He saw me
and sped up as he ran down Waverly. He
was pretty fast, but I caught up and
tackled him.
Devlin pauses to let the jury take in
the picture painted by Kujowski. And is
the man you saw running out the back
door here in the courtroom?
Yes, sir. Hes sitting right there.
The patrolman looks at our table and
points at David.
Let the record reflect, Walker says,
that the witness has identified the
defendant.
No doubt about it, says Kujowski.
Please tell us what happened next,
Devlin asks.
Well, I cuffed him. Then I helped
him up and took him to the back of the
house. As I was walking the defendant, I
called Officer Pancetti on my radio and
told him to come to the back. So Im
standing there with the defendant, and he
says, This isnt what it looks like, and I
say, Yeah? What does it look like? and
he just kind of looks away and clams up.
Officer Pancetti arrives and sees the
door is open, so he goes inside. He
comes out a minute later, tells me theres
a dead girl in the house and I should call
for backup. Then he goes back inside.
At the first mention of the dead girl,
I see some of the jurors glance at David
and me. Theyre looking to see how he
reacts to the testimony, see if they can
spot signs of guilt or innocence. Ive
instructed David to keep a poker face
throughout the trial. Even the slightest
reaction can be misread by a juror as
proof of guilt.
Devlin continues with Kujowski for
another forty minutes, going from the
arrival of backup to secure the house to
the handoff of David Hanson to
Detectives Tredesco and Cook.
Now its my turn.
So, if I heard you right, Officer
Kujowski, the very first thing
Mr. Hanson said to you was that it
wasnt what it looked like?
Thats correct.
Nothing that would have amounted
to any sort of admission?
Uh . . .
He didnt say I couldnt help
myself, or She came at me, or I cant
believe I did it, or anything like that?
He didnt choose to incriminate
himself, thats correct.
I smile. Devlin has coached the young
patrolman well.
Im sorry, what did you say? That he
didnt choose to incriminate himself?
Thats correct.
Come on, Officer Kujowski. This
isnt the first time youve arrested
someone at a crime scene, is it?
No, sir.
And doesnt it often happen that the
person is upset and blurts out whatever
it is thats happened?
Well . . .
The person will say exactly the type
of thing I asked you about earlier. Hell
say he couldnt help it. He cant believe
he did it. Even that hes sorry. Youve
heard all of those things, havent you?
I guess so.
But Mr. Hansons message to you, at
the crime scene, before he spoke with
any lawyers, was that it wasnt what it
looked like. Meaning that he didnt kill
her, correct?
After he ran out of the house, yes,
thats what he said. Or wanted me to
believe.
I ask a few more questions, then
return to the defense table.
Devlin stands. Officer, the defense
counsel asked you questions about how
other suspects reacted when caught
immediately after a crime. But this
wasnt immediately after the murder,
was it?
As it turned out, no, sir.
Ms. Yamura had been dead for quite
some time. Time enough for the
defendants emotions to cool, to think, to
plan. To speak with an attorney,
perhaps?
I object. Judge Henry sustains the
objection, but the damage has been done.
Some of the jurors are now looking at
me, probably wondering whether David
called me between the time of Jennifers
murder and the time he was caught by the
police at her house.
And one more question, Officer.
Since defense counsel brought up this
notion of suspects being distraught and
upset, what was Mr. Hansons emotional
state at the scene of the crime?
Kujowski looks directly at the jury.
He was cool as a cucumber.

Walkers next witness is Officer

Pancetti, whose testimony overlaps and
corroborates Kujowskis. Pancetti is the
one who went inside the house, and
Walker has him testify about the vacuum
cleaner sitting in the middle of the floor,
the running dishwasher, the lemon
Pledge and Windex sitting on the coffee
table.
When Pancetti is finished, Walker
asks him, Did you reach any
preliminary conclusions?
Well, yeah. He was tampering with
evidence, trying to wipe the place clean
of prints, hair, and everything else.
I object, but the judge overrules me.
It is what it is, his face tells me.
Walker wraps up by having Pancetti
describe where he found Jennifers
body. Then Devlin obtains the courts
permission, walks up to the witness box,
and hands Pancetti a photograph.
Does this photograph,
Commonwealth Exhibit 1, accurately
depict the location, position, and
condition of Ms. Yamuras body when
you first observed it?
Pancetti says it does, and the
photograph is admitted into evidence.
Devlin has his trial technicians pull up
the photograph on the large screen
theyve set up in the courtroom. This is
the first of the many gruesome dead-
body photographs the jury will see, and
it impacts them. Some of the jurors stare
at the picture, transfixed. Some look
away immediately, gather their courage,
and then look back at it again.
Devlin lets the moment hang in the air
until the judge presses him to move
forward. Do you have a question,
Mr. Walker?
Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.
Devlin turns back to the witness. Was
her body exposed like this when you
arrived?
Jennifer Yamura is fully clothed in the
picture. But theres something very
private, almost obscene, about her dead
body. No person would want themselves
to be seen by others splayed out like she
is on the steps.
Thats how she was, Pancetti
answers.
Devlin pauses, then looks at the jury.
He didnt even bother to cover her up?
Put a blanket over her? This woman hed
made love tohow many times?
I object, and the judge sustains me.
But the point has been made, and I see
fury in some of the jurors eyes.
And this is how the first day of trial
ends.
David is allowed to lean over the bar
and kiss Marcie before the deputy
escorts him out of the courtroom.
Marcie, Vaughn, Alexander Ginsberg,
and I wait for him to leave. We stand
together quietly as the press and other
spectators make their way out of the
courtroom. I wait for Devlin and
Christina Wesley to pack up and leave.
Then I turn to Ginsberg.
Good luck, he says, shaking his
head. Ill call you in a little while, after
you get back to the office. Well talk in
more detail. He turns and leaves the
courtroom.
I think you did well with the crosses
of Kujowski and Pancetti, Vaughn says.
But Devlins getting his below-the-belt
punches in over your objections. Its
close, but all theyve proven so far is
what we already admitted: that Jennifer
was murdered and that the police found
David at her house hours afterward.
Marcie looks from Vaughn to me, then
takes her leave.
Ill see you back at the office, I tell
Vaughn, hinting that its time for him to
go, too.
I leave the courtroom and walk over
to Piper, whos been waiting at the end
of the hallway. I reach out for her hands,
take them in my own. I sigh, and we
stand there looking at each other.
Then she breaks the silence. I think
you did great, she says with a smile, but
I see the fear in her eyes.
This is all going to turn out okay, I
say. Just like I promised her in the hotel
on the night of the charity gala.
Piper moves into me, and we hug,
tightly. I walk her out of the building and
down into the underground Love Park
garage. Piper climbs in her car, opens
the window. I lean through it and kiss
her.
Youll be late, I know, she says.
Ill have some leftovers in the fridge in
case youre hungry. And with that, she
drives away.
Half an hour later, Im back in my
office. Vaughn has filled Susan in on
what happened at trial. Now she sits in
one of the chairs across from my desk.
We talk a little about the two cop
witnesses, and about what Devlin is
likely to do tomorrow.
Then I ask, Have you seen Tommy?
Is he planning to watch any of the trial?
Susan tells me that Angie said hes up
at the trailer.
Our conversation ends abruptly, and I
get to work. The hours pass quickly as I
finish my cross-examination prep for
Devlins witnesses. I turn to the window
behind my desk. The tower clock at City
Hall reads 9:45. My eyes take me past
City Hall and down a few blocks on
Market Street to the tall building whose
roof still holds the red, neon PSFS sign.
I stare at the sign. Then the letters fade,
and I see my own eyes staring back at
me.
A tidal wave rises inside me,
threatening to wash me away, drown me
. . . the same way I felt when Tommy told
me about killing our father. But this time
I do not surrender to the pain. I cannot. I
must, must, must hold myself together,
see this thing through, make it work out,
for everyones sake. Everyone, that is,
except Jennifer Yamura and her shattered
family.
 28
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER
13

Day two starts with my cross-

examination of Officer Pancetti.
Yesterday, your testimony and that of
Officer Kujowski seemed to cover
everythingexcept why you were
there.
Pancetti sets his jaw. He knows
where Im going and why.
 The prosecutor asked if you were
directed by dispatch to go to Addison
Street to follow up on a report of a
possible disturbance. You remember
that?
Sure.
But you chose not to go into the
details of what was reported to
dispatch.
I just answered the questions. I
didnt choose anything.
Fair point. It was Mr. Walker who
chose not to play the audio of the 911
call.
Devlin objects, and the judge sustains
him.
Youve heard the tape, havent you?
Sure.
 I nod to Vaughn, who moves up to the
counsel table and pushes some buttons
on the laptop hooked into the
courtrooms audiovisual system. I tell
the judge were going to play the
audiotape for the jury, subject to later
authentication by the dispatcher during
our own case-in-chief. Judge Henry asks
Devlin if there is any dispute as to the
tapes authenticity. Devlin says no, so
Vaughn plays the tape.
The first words the jury hears are,
911, whats your emergency? The
dispatchers voice is clear, but the
callers voice sounds muffled, as if hes
trying to disguise it. I listen carefully, as
I have every time Ive listened to the
tape. Theres something vaguely familiar
about the callers voice.
Somethings going on in a house in
my neighborhood, the caller says. I
think maybe someone is getting hurt.
Theres a lot of shouting and screaming
coming from the house. And it sounds
like things are crashing and getting
smashed up. Lotsa rockin and rollin.
Whats the address? the dispatcher
asks.
Its 1792 Addison Street.
Ill send someone over.
You better hurry. Theyre shouting
and screaming at each other. And it
sounds like someone is getting hurt real
bad. Then theres a click.
When the tape is finished, I refocus
on the witness. But when you went into
the house, you found the oddest thing,
didnt you?
I dont understand.
Well, the caller said he heard people
shouting, but there was only one person
in the house, and that was Mr. Hanson,
right?
Maybe he was shouting to himself.
But the caller said they were
shouting at each other, didnt he?
I guess.
And all that crashing the caller
heard. When you went insidenothing
was broken, was it?
No.
No smashed vases?
No.
No broken glasses or windows or
shattered glass from picture frames?
No.
You didnt find a single broken item,
did you?
No, sir.
I pause and let this sink in. Then I
make my point.
Someone knew Mr. Hanson was in
that house and wanted very much for the
police to catch him there, didnt they?
Devlin objects that my question calls
for the witness to speculate. The judge
sustains him, but the points been made.
To nail it home, I press forward.
As a police officer at a murder
scene, did you ask yourself why
someone would call the police and say
things that couldnt possibly be true
like the voices shouting and all the
crashing?
I didnt know the details of the call
when we first got there.
But you heard the tape later. Didnt
you ask yourself then?
Pancetti hedges.
Ive made my point. Before he can
think something up, I end my
examination. Nothing further.
Devlin, still on his feet, asks one
follow-up question. Regardless of what
was said on the call, when you got to the
house, you found that it turned out to be
the scene of a murder?
Yes, it did.
Devlins next witness is Barbara King,
Davids executive assistant at HWI.
Barbara is a tall, attractive woman in
her early sixties with perfectly coiffed
white hair. Barbara walks with authority
to the jury box and looks directly at the
jurors as she puts her hand on the Bible
and promises to tell the truth. Although
some businessmen enjoy having a young
bimbo as their assistant, the smart move
for someone as highly placed as David
is to have a mature, no-nonsense woman
running his office. That Barbara King is
such a woman comes across quickly.
Ms. King, by whom are you
employed? Devlin asks.
Hanson World Industries, Barbara
answers crisply.
 Until June of this year, what was
your title, and who was your immediate
superior?
My title was executive assistant to
the general counsel. I worked directly
under David Hanson.
And since June?
When Mr. Hanson took a leave of
absence, I kept my title but began
reporting to Mr. Kratz.
How long had you been
Mr. Hansons executive assistant?
For ten years, since our previous
general counsel retired.
Over the course of the decade during
which you worked for Mr. Hanson, did
you become familiar with his routines
and procedures?
 Yes.
Did you manage his schedule?
Yes.
Do you remember Thursday, May the
thirty-first, of this year?
With the help of my calendar, yes.
Devlin has a printout of the calendar
marked as an exhibit. He hands it to
Barbara King. He has her testify to
Davids schedule. It was a busy day that
started at 8:00 a.m. He had three back-
to-back meetings, followed by a long
phone call to outside counsel and a
shorter call to Edwin. At 11:15, David
had a light snack brought into his office
from the executive dining room. He
placed two more calls while he ate, then
left the office at 11:50.
 It sounds like Mr. Hansons days
were tightly scheduled, Devlin says.
Thats correct.
And as his executive assistant, you
knew with whom he was meeting, and
when, and who he was talking to on the
phone?
Correct.
But he left his afternoon open?
Correct.
Did he tell you where he was
going?
For the first time, Barbara shifts in
her seat, glances at David.
No.
Did he always take off in the
afternoons without telling you where he
was going, like he did the afternoon
Jennifer Yamura was murdered?
No.
Did he often do that?
No.
This was not a typical occurrence,
then?
Correct.
Mrs. King, let me ask you directly.
Was David Hanson in the office any time
after 11:50 on May the thirty-first of this
year?
No.
And if he told the police who
arrested him that he was in the office all
afternoon, that would have been a lie?
Barbara pauses before answering. It
would have been incorrect.
Would it have been a lie? Since he
had to have known where he was, and
since he wasnt in the office, his telling
the police that he was in the office had to
have been a lie, correct?
I object, and the judge sustains me.
Devlin is beating a dead horse.
Everyone in the courtroom knows David
lied to the police about where he was at
the time of Jennifer Yamuras death.
When my time comes to question
Barbara King, I walk toward the witness
box with a smile. Good morning, I
begin. Mrs. King wishes me a good
morning in return. It seems like the
prosecution was trying to make the point
that it was unusual for Mr. Hanson to
leave the office in the afternoon without
telling you where he was going. Walker
could object to my statement, but hes
clearly reluctant to do so on my very
first question. Although it wasnt
Mr. Hansons everyday practice to do
this, did he in fact clear out of the office
from time to time?
Yes.
And when he did this, would he tell
you where he was going?
No.
Did you ask?
At this, Barbara King pauses for only
the second time in her testimony. No.
Let me ask you frankly. Did you, as
Mr. Hansons executive assistant for ten
years, suspect he was having an affair?
Of course.
So when he left the office that day
and didnt return, it didnt surprise
you?
No.
And the other times he was out of the
office, a woman who turned out to be his
lover didnt end up dead?
Certainly not.
I ask whether David is the only high-
ranking executive shes worked for at
HWI over the years who performed this
disappearing trick. Devlins objection is
sustained, but my point is made. Lots of
alpha businessmen have calendars with
empty afternoons.
Devlin is on his feet the instant Im
seated. Mrs. King, the defense is
claiming that Mr. Hanson was not with
Ms. Yamura the afternoon she died. If he
wasnt at the office, where else could he
have been? Who else would he be with
but with his lover, Jennifer Yamura?
At this, Barbara King blanches. She
looks quickly at David, then me, then
past both of us into the spectator
benches. Devlin doesnt catch this
because he is facing the jury with a smug
look plastered on his face. He doesnt
see whom Barbara King glances at in the
gallery. I dont need to see. I know who
it is.
Devlins next witness is Albert Mays,
one of the managers of the garage in
Davids office building. As he did with
Barbara King, Devlin moves quickly
through Mayss testimony, establishing
that David pulled into the garage at 7:45
a.m. the day Jennifer was killed and
didnt leave until 6:20 that night. He
returned to the garage four-plus hours
later, at 10:40 p.m., and his car remained
there until the next afternoon. I pretend to
pay little attention to his testimony, again
trying to convey to the jury that I think
its unimportant. When Devlin is
finished with direct, I act as though Im
unsure whether even to bother with any
cross. Then I turn to the jury, shrug, and
ask the witness just two questions.
So if I understand the import of your
testimony, Mr. Hanson was likely
somewhere in the city of Philadelphia at
the time of Ms. Yamuras murder?
Uh, I suppose so.
Just like a million other people?
 Walker objects, and I withdraw the
question.
Judge Henry dismisses Albert Mays
and signals its time to take our
midmorning break. After the break, the
court refills, and Devlin puts Kevin
Kratz on the stand. Kratzs testimony is
pretty much a replay of what hed said at
the hearing that caused Judge Henry to
revoke Davids bail and send him to jail
pending the outcome at trial. This time,
however, Kratz doesnt seem afraid so
much as resigned. He says what Devlin
wants him to but comes across as
listless, almost lifeless. This frustrates
Devlin, who glances back periodically
to Christina Wesley. Given Kratzs
complete lack of enthusiasm for what
hes saying, I decide to limit my cross to
a single, vital point.
When my client went on a leave of
absence, youre the one who took his job
as general counsel of HWI, isnt that
right?
Yes.
A big raise in pay?
Kevin takes a deep breath.
Substantial. Commensurate with the
additional responsibilities.
You took over his office?
Yes.
His secretary?
Yes.
Davids brother, Edwin Hanson,
made all that happen for you, didnt he?
Well, yes. Hes the CEO. Its his
decision who serves as general
counsel.
Edwin Hanson hates David Hanson,
doesnt he?
Kevin hesitates.
Youre under oath, I say.
There is enmity between them.
David Hanson lives in the family
home, rather than Edwinisnt that
right? Because their father granted
Davids mother a life estate in the
property. Shes letting David, not Edwin,
live there.
Yes.
Has Edwin complained bitterly
about that?
He has expressed his displeasure.
Is Edwin also jealous that David,
before his arrest, was on the verge of
securing a huge deal for HWIand for
our entire region? Edwin was upset
because he knew he was going to have to
make David an executive vice president
once it went through and bring him into
the operations side of the business, isnt
that right?
Devlin is on his feet. His anger has
gotten the better of him. Objection!
There are about five questions in there.
Not even questions. Statements. Five of
them.
Bill Henry smiles. I think there are
only two questions, counselor. Would the
witness answer the first one first and the
second one second? The judge directs
the court reporter to read my questions
back.
David was on the cusp of a very
large deal, yes. And Edwin was going to
have to promote him.
I pause for a moment, then turn to the
jury. Cain and Abel, I say.
Devlin objects, but the jury gets the
picture. Nothing further, I tell the
judge.
Devlin decides he wants Kratz off the
stand as soon as possible and tells the
court he has no redirect.
Despite the late start, Judge Henry
breaks for lunch at 12:30, as usual. I
speak for a few minutes with my team,
telling Vaughn to walk Marcie and
Alexander Ginsberg back to the office,
where Angie will have lunch already set
up for everyone.

The trial resumes at two oclock. Devlin

puts on the pilots, who regurgitate their
testimony from the motion hearing. The
jury hears all about Davids trip on the
Learjet to Mexico and the Cayman
Islands. The pilots testimony is
sensational and makes an impact on the
jury. Equally damning is the testimony of
Caroline Robb, the assistant district
attorney from the financial-crimes unit.
Shes good on the stand, telling a story
that transforms the jurors into fellow
travelers on Davids cash-gathering
journey. By the time shes finished, each
juror feels exhilarated by their jet-setting
adventure. And dirty. Because it was a
dirty business.
Cross-examining Caroline Robb, I
know, is not going to be easy. Shes a
pro. She has the evidence. She believes
what shes saying. Still, I have to try.
All that flying around from one
country to another . . . , I begin. Seems
like a lot of work to accomplish what
you could do with a phone call or few
keystrokes on a computer.
Devlin objects, says thats not a
question. The judge sustains him.
Ms. Robb, isnt it true that
Mr. Hanson simply could have called his
bank in the Caymans and directed them
to wire the money to an account here in
Philadelphia and then have withdrawn
the money here?
That would have left a paper trail.
An American bank would have been
required to report a withdrawal of that
size to the government.
To the federal government, not the
district attorneys office?
He couldnt have just told Azoteca
Comercial to wire money to an account
here, Robb continues. That money was
cash, to begin with. The employees in
Mexico would have had to deposit the
money into a bank and then wire it here.
It seems likely that someone would have
called the home office before doing that,
and your client would have been foiled
before he could get the money.
 But theres an even larger problem
with your theory, I press. If
Mr. Hanson was planning to flee, there
would never have been a need to wire
money into the United States to begin
with, would there?
I dont follow.
Mr. Hanson has millions of dollars
already in the United States that he could
have wired to whatever country he was
planning to flee to, right?
Robb doesnt skip a beat. Except
that wiring the money would, again, have
created a paper trail that tipped the
government off to his intended
destination. Which is precisely why it
was necessary to collect a bunch of cash
and take it with him.
 But there was no reason for him to
forward money to his so-called
destination in the first place, was there?
I dont follow.
Mr. Hanson has accounts around the
world. Theres money already waiting
for him wherever hed want to go, isnt
there?
This stops Robb. She hasnt thought
of this. Or maybe she has thought of it
but hasnt figured out an answer. Still,
shes good on her feet and comes back
with an answer. Once your client fled
the country, Mr. McFarland, he would
have been a fugitive. There arent many
countries without reciprocal extradition
treaties. He couldnt have gone to
Europe. Or Canada. Or Australia or
New Zealand. Or the Scandinavian
countries. Even Iceland and Greenland
would have shipped him back. I doubt
that he had his money parked in any of
the places that are left. Hed have
needed cash.
So, youre saying he had it all
planned out? That he was acting
rationally and that his plan all along was
to get out of the United States and stay
out?
I have no doubt of it.
Then why did he do it?
Do what?
Do what? I repeat Robbs
question, my voice loud, my arms
spread, looking straight at the jury. Do
the one thing that puts the lie to your
whole theory.
Robb rolls her eyes. I have no idea
what youre talking about.
Come back!
Caroline gets it now. Well . . .
Mr. Hanson was already in two
foreign countries, but he came back to
the United States, correct?
Yes.
To Philadelphia?
It would seem so.
He was in the Caymans! With a jet!
And four million in cash! He was scot-
free!
Objection! Devlin is on his feet.
I ignore him. But he came back here
on the eve of his trial. Two weeks before
jury selection. To prepare his defense!
 The objection is sustained! Now
the judges voice is raised. Bill Henrys
upset with me. Counsel will limit
himself to questions, not speeches.
The jury can see that Ive crossed the
line. But the point is clear. The last thing
a rat trying to flee a trap will do once he
gets out is to climb right back in.

Now its Edwins turn. Devlin wants to

wrap up the afternoon having Davids
own brother indict him. He moves
quickly through the background
questions about Edwins and Davids
roles at HWI. He has Edwin repeat what
Kevin Kratz told the jury about being
asked by the DAs financial-crimes unit
to look into the possibility that David
had misappropriated corporate cash. But
when Devlin gets to the money shot,
things go wrong for him.
Was there any possible corporate
purpose, Walker asks, for your
brothers taking two million dollars in
cash from Azoteca Comercial?
At the motion hearing, Edwin had
answered, None whatsoever. The
answer he gives today, however, is
different.
None that I was apprised of at the
time.
Devlin tries to hide his surprise. He
stands behind his table, pretends to look
through his notes. Hes trying to decide
whether to remind Edwin of his prior
testimony or leave it alone. He glances
over at me and realizes Ive caught the
twist in Edwins testimony and that Ill
jump all over it if he doesnt nail Edwin
down first. Mr. Hanson, do you recall
that in previous testimony before this
court, you stated that there was no
corporate purpose for your brothers
using the company jet and taking the
money from Azoteca Comercial?
I believe I said none whatsoever.
And there wasnt that I was aware of at
the time of my earlier testimony.
Well, as CEO of Hanson World
Industries, you certainly would be aware
of the use of the company jet and the
withdrawal of large sums of cash.
 At this, Edwins tone turns nasty.
Mr. Walker, my company employs forty
thousand people in two dozen countries.
We have countless executives, and I
dont know how many airplanes. I assure
you that I do not keep track of it all.
Devlin is incredulous. But this was
your own brother, taking a jet out of
Philadelphia and looting a subsidiary.
Objection, I say. The prosecutor is
arguing with the witness. His own
witness, I add.
Sustained, the judge says. Then he
looks to Devlin. Is it your intention to
impeach your own witness? You
certainly may. But you have to ask
permission first.
Devlin is completely flustered at this
turn of events. He pretends to look down
at his notes again. I use the time to
glance at David and Marcie, both of
whom have very slight smiles on their
faces. And I can guess why. Theyve
gotten to Edwin, threatened him with
something. Its causing Edwin to throw
Devlin a major curveball on direct and,
if Im guessing correctly, follow my lead
on cross. So when Devlin mumbles that
he has no further questions, I stand and
lead Edwin down the primrose path. The
path that Id started to clear during the
motion hearing.
I understand that Hanson World
Industries is involved in many
humanitarian efforts around the globe, I
begin.
 Yes. Thats right. Were very proud
of our charitable work, particularly in
Central America and the African
nations.
I expect that your company would
prefer to work through the governments
of the countries in which you give aid.
But some of those governments are less
than trustworthy.
Yes.
So youve found it prudent to pay for
food, clothing, services, and medical
care directly. With cash.
Correct.
Do you require receipts?
Of course not.
And which executives at HWI
oversee the companys charitable
efforts?
Edwin pauses, but answers as I
expect him to. We have a department
that runs all of our overseas aid. That
department reports to the general
counsels office.
And before your brother took his
leave of absence, did he, as general
counsel, fill you in on all the operational
details of those efforts?
No.
So when you said that your brothers
use of the corporate funds from Azoteca
Comercial was not for any purpose that
you knew of, is it possible he took the
money to use as part of HWIs charitable
work?
Edwin clenches his jaw. Yes.
 I thank Edwin for his candor and turn
to take my seat. I cant resist sneaking a
peek at Devlin and Christina Wesley,
both of whom are struggling to remain
impassive. But there is someone in the
courtroom even more upset by Edwins
testimony than the two prosecutors. As
Davids brother passes by the defense
table, facing away from the jurors, he
lets the mask hes worn fall away.
Edwins face remains fixed in stone, but
his eyes are filled with hate.
 29
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER
13, CONTINUED

Judge Henry waits for Edwin to exit the

bar, then calls counsel up to the bench.
Its 4:30, he says, looking at the clock
on the wall. Im going to send the jurors
to their hotel. Then I want to meet with
you in my chambers. We have some
housekeeping matters.
The judge tells the jury their trial day
is over and reminds them not to talk
about the case.
The jurors nod to show the judge they
understand and will heed him. I know
better, of course. By now the jury will
have broken into smaller cliques of two
or three. Could be along racial lines,
gender lines, age lines, politics, or
education. Or based on nothing more
than how close some of the jurors are
sitting together in the box. The members
of these small groups will discuss the
evidence. Theyll also exchange snide
remarks about the witnesses, the
lawyers, the judge, the people sitting in
the spectator benches. Or other jurors.
Sometimes the courts deputy will
overhear them and laugh along or mildly
scold them. The bottom line is that
opinions about every facet of the case
have already begun to form in the jurors
minds. These opinions will congeal over
the next few days; in fact, some jurors
will have already made up their minds
long before the attorneys closing
arguments.
Once the jurors and spectators have
cleared the courtroom, I take my troops
into the hallway for our daily debriefing.
Henry never should have let in all that
stuff about David traveling abroad to
gather money, Alexander Ginsberg
says. Im surprised he did.
I thank Ginsberg, then turn to Marcie.
Id like to meet with you after the
conference with the judge, I tell her.
Vaughn, will you walk Marcie to the
office? I watch them make their way
down the hall toward the elevators.
Piper has been hanging back a few feet
away. I tell her Ill be there in a minute.
Mr. Walker was one unhappy pup in
there, Ginsberg says. Any idea why
his man Edwin turned coat?
An idea? Yes.
You know, Mick, youre really not
doing all that poorly. This may be a case
to take to the jury, after all.
I take a deep breath. I havent told
Ginsberg about the tape. He doesnt
know, as I do from the video, that three
men met with Jennifer Yamura in her
house the day she was killed. That the
second man pushed her down the stairs.
And that it must have been the third man,
David Hanson, who finished her off.
And Ginsberg doesnt know why I must
ensure that David gets away with it. Or
why, to make that happen, I need to see
to it that this case never goes to verdict.
I cant have this case get anywhere
near the jury, I tell him. And David
and Marcie have to be plenty scared
when the defense rests its case. Thats
why youre here.
I remember.
Ginsberg leaves me, and I go over to
Piper.
I forgot how good you are, she
says. And how interesting trials can
be.
Interesting is a good word for it.
 Ancient Chinese curse, I know,
Piper says, referring to the famous line:
May you live in interesting times.
Seriously, though, I felt like I was on a
roller coaster in there. The morning was
bad for David, but in the afternoon things
seemed to turn around. What did
Mr. Ginsberg think?
He said that we cant let this case
get anywhere near a jury. Pipers face
falls dramatically. Hey, dont worry.
The prosecutions case is full of holes,
and Im going to rip them wide open for
the jury. Then comes our turn.
Will David have to testify?
I take a deep breath. Im hoping not.
Devlin would crush him. Unless David
chooses to disclose his alibi for where
he was at the time of the murder.
How long does he have to decide to
do that?
We were supposed to notify the
court and prosecution of a potential alibi
defense a long time ago. Still, if David
came forward even now with a credible
alibi, I dont think Bill Henry would
exclude it. I pause. Piper seems not to
realize that I have stopped talking.
Hey? You okay?
Yeah. She checks her watch.
Oops. Ive got to get to my parents
house and pick up Gabby.
I walk Piper to the elevators and
press the Down button for her. Im
not going to be too late tonight, I say. I
have to meet Marcie for a few minutes,
discuss strategy, then tighten up my
cross-examinations on some of the
prosecution witnesses. Shouldnt take
more than a few hours. Ill be home by
nine. Pipers elevator arrives and she
starts to enter. Then she turns to face me,
holding open the doors.
Is Marcie involved in the strategy?
Piper asks.
I nod. Sometimes I think shes more
involved in it that I am.
Piper stares at me for a moment, then
smiles wanly and lets the elevator doors
close. I take the next elevator to the
twelfth floor and the judges chambers.
The judge, Devlin Walker, Christina
Wesley, and the judges law clerk are all
waiting for me.
 Glad you could join us,
Mr. McFarland, the judge says. Theres
a sharpness to his voice, and I decide
not to make light of my tardiness. All
right, he says, now that were all here,
let me get to it. This whole money thing
is bothering me. I think I may have made
a mistake in letting it in. This causes
Devlin to shift in his seat. Christina
Wesleys jaw drops. The judge goes on,
addressing himself to me. Thats why I
gave you broad latitude in asking about
all that charity stuff. Do you have a fair
basis for that line of questioning? Some
evidence to support it? Its one thing to
imply that your client used the money for
a worthy goal in a motion hearing. Its
another entirely to use your questions to
send a false message to the jury during
trial.
I look the judge in the eye and
answer, I do have a fair basis for my
questions. Whether I decide to have my
client take the stand and disclose that
information is up in the air.
Devlin is halfway out of his seat by
now. Your Honor, I would strongly
object to the courts reversing itself on
this issue, particularly now that the
Commonwealth has presented evidence
on it. The jury would think we tried to
get away with something and Your
Honor shut us down.
Relax, counselor, the judge says. I
havent made up my mind what Im
going to do yet. But from this point on, I
dont want any more testimony on it. I
want you to focus on the elements of the
charges.
Edwin Hanson was our last witness
on the flight issue, Devlin says.
The judge nods, then turns back to me.
Im going to let in the evidence of the
neighborhood robberies. This is a
murder case, and it seems to me that
other break-ins close in time and place
to the murder are probative of the issue
of whether there may have been someone
other than the defendant with the motive
and opportunity to kill the decedent.
Devlin protests. Your Honor, there
are burglaries and petty crimes in every
neighborhood in the city. Are we going
to conduct mini trials on every
neighborhood transgression in all of our
murder cases? It would be unworkable!
Then its Christina Wesleys turn to
vent. This is ridiculous! We dont even
know who committed those burglaries.
How can we investigate a crime if we
dont know who the criminal is?
The judge, Devlin Walker, and I all
look at the young prosecutor. After a
moment, I offer, Well, gee, Ms. Wesley,
I thought that part of the investigation
process is finding out the identity of the
criminal.
Christinas face turns crimson. I cant
tell whether shes more embarrassed at
herself or livid with me.
Is there any talk of a plea here? Bill
Henry asks, out of the blue. I know your
client isnt going to cop to first degree,
he continues, looking at me. But what
about voluntary manslaughter? Or even
involuntary manslaughter?
Devlin says he has little interest in a
plea but will consider it if approached
by the defense.
The judge shrugs and tells me to talk
to my client, see if hell agree to plead
to a lesser charge.
Ill run it by him, Your Honor, I say,
without enthusiasm.
The judge dismisses us until
tomorrow, and I leave chambers ahead
of Devlin and Christina. Im walking
toward the elevators when Walker
comes up behind me.
A minute, Mick, he says.
 I turn and wait.
Early on, Devlin says, I offered to
let your client save himself from life
imprisonment by pleading to voluntary
manslaughter. Im making that offer
again, for the last time, but only if
I put up a hand to stop him. I know. I
know it chapter and verse. How about
you tell me something.
Devlin stares at me, waiting.
Whats the big secret? I ask.
He looks at me, confused.
Come on, Devlin. Youve zeroed in
on that computer from the get-go. What
about it is so important that youre
willing to let go of the biggest murder
conviction of your career? A conviction
that would make you a shoo-in for DA
when you-know-who decides its time to
step down?
You know why I want that computer.
Yamura had more information on the
police drug ring. More namesmaybe a
lot more. I want those names and
whatever additional evidence she had.
Ive never made a secret of that.
I stare hard at Walker, let the corner
of my mouth curl up just a little.
Theres more to it than that. You would
never trade a David Hanson just to rope
in a few more crooked cops. Now its
Devlins turn to stare. Its something
close to home, is what Im betting. The
hard-on you have for that laptop isnt
because you want to see whats on it. Its
because you dont want someone else to
see it.
Devlins jaw stiffens. Ive struck a
nerve, as intended, but he still thinks Im
only guessing. One last chance, Mick.
Your client can plead to voluntary
manslaughter tomorrow morning, before
we start the days testimony. But that
offer goes away the minute my first
witness is sworn in. Forever. With that,
he turns and walks away.
Its close to six oclock by the time I
get back to the office. I go right to the
conference room, where Marcie is
waiting for me. Seated at the far end of
the table, she watches me as I enter and
close the door behind me.
Theres fresh coffee, she says,
nodding to the white porcelain pitcher
sitting in front of her. I assume youre
planning on a late night.
Ill get some later, I say, taking a
corner seat closest to Marcie. For
someone whos spent all day sitting in a
crowded courtroom, she looks
remarkably fresh. Her conservative blue
pantsuit doesnt have a wrinkle, and not
a hair is out of place on her head. The
faintest wisp of perfume dances across
my face, and I wonder whether Marcie
just spritzed herself in the ladies room
or if shes wearing some immorally
expensive fragrance that has a time-
release element built in.
Marcie and I sit for a moment,
looking at each other, until I split the
silence with a single word. Edwin.
 Marcie smiles. Yes, Edwin, she
says, her eyes alight. He and I had a
little sit-down this morning at his office.
The sun wasnt even up, but he was
already at work, as I knew he would be.
He thought hed have a fun day in the
courtroom, hanging my husband out to
dry. I convinced him otherwise, made
him see that he hadnt thought things
through.
What exactly did you threaten him
with?
David was general counsel at HWI
for close to ten years. His job was to
manage all of the companys legal
problems. Manage as in keep secret.
Hide. Sweep under the rug. David told
me to convey to his brother that if Edwin
hurt him with the jury, the phones would
begin ringing in every major news outlet
in the country as well as in dozens of
state and federal regulatory agencies.
Payoffs to politicians, here and abroad.
Environmental violations, big and
bigger. Cover-ups of discrimination
claims. Falsified drug-test results.
Weapons technology sold secretly to
certain unsavory governments.
Violations of international trade
agreements. And the paperwork to back
it all up. By the time David and I
finished with him, poor Edwin would
have to spend the next decade testifying
before congressional subcommittees.
And then, of course, the United States
attorney would take his turn.
 I sit back in my chair and take all this
in. What Marcie is telling me without
shame or hesitation is that her husband,
along with his brother and their
henchmen, engaged in corporate villainy
on a titanic scale.
What about Kevin Kratz?
What about him?
Youre going to lop off his head, I
say.
As soon as the verdict comes down,
no matter what that verdict is. Same with
that worthless enabler, Barbara King. I
made Edwin promise.
But what if Kratz makes the same
threat to Edwin you have? Demands to
be kept on or given some huge golden
parachute?
 Marcie laughs outright at this. Come
now, Mick. Do you really think that little
weasel has it in him?
Shes right, of course. Kevin
wouldnt dare take on David or Edwin
Hanson.
I tell Marcie what Judge Henry said
after court about possibly reconsidering
his admission of Davids gathering $4
million on the eve of trial. Marcie
smiles and says, I think after tomorrow,
the judge will do just that.
Her remark instantly fills me with
worry. What are you talking about?
Do you know how many people have
been starving in South Sudan? How
many have been displaced around the
world by civil war?
 I can feel the blood draining from my
face. What have you and David done
this time?
Marcie pulls out a cigarette and lights
it up. She stares at me as she takes a
deep drag. Then a second. David didnt
kill that tart. And Im not going to let him
go to prison for her death.
How can you be so sure he didnt do
it? Maybe they got into a fight. Maybe he
lost control.
David doesnt lose control, Marcie
said.
Everyone loses control! You didnt
see David the morning of his arrest,
sitting in that prison cell. That was not a
man in control.
Marcie glares at me.
 And whats your answer to the
video?
All it shows is David going in and
out of the house.
During the time period Jennifer
Yamura was killed. David would be
sunk if that film ever got out.
Oh, knock it off. This isnt just about
you protecting David. If it ever got out
about that video and your role in keeping
it under wraps, youd be charged with
obstruction of justice. Youre protecting
your own ass as much as youre looking
out for David.
I grit my teeth but say nothing.
Marcies right. That video would damn
me, too.
Marcie stands, puts her coat on,
wraps the strap of her handbag around
her shoulder. I watch her walk to the
door, thinking shes going to leave
without saying good-bye. But she turns.
I know this case has been rough on
you. And that itll probably get rougher
for a whole lot of reasons. David and
I arent making it any easier. I know that,
too. But we cant just sit back and hope
the legal system works the way its
supposed to. David and I have assets
relationships and avenues not open to
most people. Were going to take
advantage of them. You disagree, but we
think our efforts will help. But even if
they dont, at least David and I wont
look back with the regret that comes
from not doing everything one could
have. Marcie looks at me for a long
moment, then turns and walks out the
door.
When shes gone, I stare at the empty
conference room for a long time.
I know all about regret.
 30
WEDNESDAY,
NOVEMBER 14

Devlin Walker, Christina Wesley, and I

are seated before Judge Henry in his
small office adjoining the courtroom.
Well? the judge asks. Have you
considered my request for a plea deal?
Devlin jumps in before I can answer.
We offered Man One, Your Honor. As
sweet a deal as this defendant could
ever hope to get.
The judge considers this, then looks
at me.
I met with Mr. Hanson this morning,
and we talked at length. I pause and
withdraw a piece of lined yellow legal
paper from my breast pocket. My client
paid close attention to everything I told
him. Then he asked me for a pen and
something to write on. He said he
wanted to make sure Your Honor heard
his message in his words. What he wrote
is this: I did not kill Jennifer Yamura.
Not deliberately. Not accidentally. Not
in a fit of passion. Not by reason of
insanity or whatever other loophole
could lessen the sentence. I did not kill
Jennifer Yamura, and I will not plead
guilty to any crime that implies that I did,
even if it would keep me from spending
a thousand years in prison. As to the
lesser charges pertaining to altering the
crime scene, I ask Your Honor to
understand that the murder charges
wrongfully brought against me by the
jump-the-gun prosecutor have destroyed
my reputation, left my career in ruins,
and derailed a business deal that could
have benefited every man, woman, and
child living in Philadelphia. Like any
innocent man, I shudder at the prospect
of imprisonment. But I am not going to
enter into any deal, on any charge,
proposed by this wrongful
prosecution.
I fold the piece of paper, place it back
into my jacket, and look at the judge.
So, the judge says, even if the DA
offered Man Two . . .
Not even jaywalking.
At this, Walker actually snorts his
contempt. The judge casts him a
disapproving glance and then orders us
to go back to the courtroom. I pause at
the doorway while Christina Wesley and
Devlin leave. Then, before I cross the
threshold, I glance back. Bill Henry is
staring at me, and I can see hes gotten
the messageDavid Hanson is innocent
and will cop to nothing.
Which will play perfectly into my
endgame.
I watch the jury file in and take their
seats.
The Commonwealth calls Detective
John Tredesco to the stand, Devlin
announces.
Tredesco enters the well through the
gate on the left of the courtroom, the
prosecution side, passing between the
prosecutors table and the jury box. His
thinning black hair is freshly cut, but it
still looks greasy on his small head. He
has his suit jacket buttoned as he walks
past the jury, so they cant see his gut
sticking over his belt. Tredesco turns to
face the jury and cant help hard-staring
them as he takes the stand.
Devlin begins with the usual
questioning, about Tredescos having
been raised in Philadelphia, his time at
the academy, and his fifteen-year tenure
as a detective, the last eight with
homicide. Those boxes all checked,
Walker takes Tredesco to the night of
Jennifer Yamuras murder.
Officers Pancetti and Kujowski
handed the defendant over to Detective
Cook and me, and we drove him to the
station house, Tredesco begins. He
was processed and brought to an
interview room. Detective Cook offered
him coffee. He said no, at first, then after
a while said okay. So we brought him
the coffee and some milk, too, but he
said he had to have skim milk. Detective
Cook went and checked the fridge and
brought back two percent milk, and the
defendant said, No. I said skim. Not
two percent. So Detective Cook found
some skim. But by then the defendant
said the coffee wasnt hot enough and
asked could we nuke it.
This is vintage Tredesco bullshit.
Fabricated details to make a defendant
look bad. Tredesco has been offering
this stuff up on the witness stand as long
as I can remember. When I was a
prosecutor, I had to tell him to knock it
off more than once.
Did you question the defendant
before he asked for a lawyer? Devlin
asks.
Before, yes. Not after. Tredesco
knows to emphasize that anything hes
going to attribute to the defendant was
said before the invocation of Miranda
rights. We asked him why he killed the
girl, Jennifer Yamura. Was there a fight?
Did she want to break things off? Did
she catch him with someone else?
What did he say?
He denied everything.
Did you ask him where he was when
the victim was murdered?
Yes.
Did he answer?
He said he was at work all
afternoon, which I found a little odd.
Why did that strike you as odd?
I never told him when shed been
killed. So how did he know that it was
that afternoon? Devlin lets this hang in
the air for a while. I see a couple of
jurors raise their eyebrows. A few look
toward the defense table to see how
David and I react to this.
So, he told you he was at work all
afternoon, Devlin follows up. Did you
come to learn whether that was true or
not?
Before Tredesco can answer, I stand.
Your Honor, well stipulate that
Mr. Hanson wasnt at work all day.
Ms. King testified to that, and weve
never disputed it. The judge casts me a
cold look. Davids lying is an important
point for the prosecutor, and Bill Henry
isnt going to let me pretend otherwise
by offering to stipulate to it.
Overruled.
We found out from his secretary,
Tredesco starts in, that it wasnt true
that he was at his office. She told us that
he took off without telling her where he
was going and never showed up again.
Devlin says, Im not going to ask you
about fingerprints and DNA found
around the house. That will be for the
CSU witness to describe for the jury. But
did you learn anything important about
the house itself?
Absolutely. We learned that
Mr. Hanson arranged for the purchase of
the house about six years ago through a
subsidiary of Hanson World Industries.
How do you know it was the
defendant who was responsible for the
purchase and not someone else at HWI?
His name was on the agreement of
sale. He signed it as general counsel.
Devlin requests permission to
approach the witness, then walks to the
stand and has Tredesco identify the sales
agreement.
Devlin moves the exhibit into
evidence, then asks Tredesco if he
learned anything else about the house at
1792 Addison Street.
The whole place had just been
remodeled, the detective answers.
New carpets, new furniture, new TV. A
brand-new bed. I figured the defendant
was planning to get a new girlfriend,
too.
I object, and the judge strikes the
remark from the record, tells the jury to
pretend they didnt hear it.
 Devlin asks Tredesco whether he
considered any potential suspects other
than David.
Of course, Tredesco lies. I do that
in every investigation. Even where its
clear from the start who committed the
crime, I try to play devils advocate, ask
myself who else might have done it. If
another lead does appear, I follow it
wherever it takes me. Thats what
criminal investigation is all about.
Devlin spends another half hour with
Tredesco, having him recount to the jury
his and Detective Cooks investigation,
step by step. Their interviews with all
the neighbors, giving their names and the
dates and times they were interviewed.
Their interviews with Edwin Hanson,
Kevin Kratz, the garage manager, and
then Barbara King and half a dozen of
Davids other colleagues at work.
Reviewing the evidence with the CSU
team and the medical examiner.
Interviews with Jennifer Yamuras
coworkers, friends, and even her parents
and brother. Late nights and early
mornings. Meals skipped. Even an
anniversary missed. Devlins message to
the jury: the police conducted a thorough
investigation and followed the evidence
to David Hanson.
Did you find anyone who could
place the defendant anywhere other than
at Jennifer Yamuras house on the
afternoon of her death? Walker asks.
No one placed him anywhere else.
 Did you find anyone who had
information that Mr. Hanson put, or
intended to put, the four million dollars
to any use other than as seed money for
an attempt to flee the jurisdiction?
No one came forward with any other
reason for the money.
One final area of questioning,
Detective, Walker says. And its an
important one. Did you find any other
credible leads, any other suspects in
Jennifer Yamuras murder, that werent
speculative?
That werent speculative, no. I
mean, we knew Ms. Yamura wasnt
exactly liked by the police officers
charged in the drug ring. But none of
them were caught running out of her
house. And the CSU team didnt find any
prints of those particular officers in the
house. So we marked them off the list.
After due consideration, of course.
Had Ms. Yamura received any death
threats from any of the officers? Devlin
asks.
There was no evidence of that.
Any phone calls to her house made
from the numbers of any of those
officers? Or calls from her to them?
Im ready to spring now. The court
has made clear that Jennifers calls to
me are out of bounds, but I can imagine
Tredesco trying to slip them in.
He plays it straight. No.
Other than her relationship with the
defendant, did you learn of any romantic
relationship that would give someone a
motive to kill Ms. Yamura?
No one, Tredesco answers.
Thank you, Detective, Walker says.
Your Honor, thats all I have on direct.

The court gives everyone a ten-minute

midmorning break to stretch and use the
bathroom. I wait for the deputy to take
David through the side door to the
holding cell. Then I turn to Ginsberg and
Vaughn. Marcie is leaving the courtroom
through the door on the left, Piper
through the door on the right.
Ginsberg rolls his eyes. Tredesco.
He knows the detective as well as I do.
 Thirty minutes after the ten-minute
break has begun, the jurors are back in
their seats. Judge Henry gives me the
nod, and Im on my feet in a flash, going
right at John Tredesco.
You would have this jury believe
that you conducted an exhaustive
investigation?
Very exhaustive.
That you left no stone unturned? That
you looked into every possible
suspect?
Every credible suspect.
List for the jury the names of the
drug-pushing cops you looked into. Tell
the jury every step you took to
investigate each of them.
Like I said, their prints werent at
the scene. There was no evidence they
even tried to contact the victim before
she was killed.
List their names, Detective. The
names of the drug-pushing cops indicted
by the grand jury. Tredesco pauses,
glances at Devlin, who merely opens his
hands.
I dont remember their names,
Tredesco says, so I hand him the list.
Does that refresh your
recollection?
Tredesco hems and haws, but I
eventually get him to list the officers
names.
What was that phrase you used on
direct examination? I ask. That
Ms. Yamura wasnt exactly liked by the
crooked cops? Did you really say that?
Tredesco stares at me. Those crooked
cops hated her, isnt that true? Her story
on them instantly destroyed their
reputations, cost them their jobs, and
sped up their prosecution. Isnt all of
that true?
Like I said, there was no evidence
they even tried to contact the victim
before she was killed.
Really? They didnt call her to warn
her they were coming? Is that what
youre saying?
Tredescos eyes bore into me. There
was no contact between any of those
officers and the victim. And none of
their fingerprints were found at her
house.
 Did you consider the fact that
experienced police officers might have
heard about fingerprint evidence and
decided to wear gloves?
We found no gloves at the scene.
Because the police would know
better than to leave gloves at the crime
scene. Gloves that would have their
prints and DNA all over them.
Tredesco sits rock-still in his chair.
The police didnt kill her.
They killed one of their fellow
officers who testified against them,
Stanley Lipinski. Shot him down like a
dog in the street.
Devlin is on his feet, objecting, as he
should. Your Honor, there is not one
shred of evidence that Officer Lipinski
was killed by other police officers, let
alone the ones implicated in the drug
ring. I move to strike counsels remarks
and ask the court to stop this absolutely
improper line of questioning.
The court sustains the objection, and I
move on.
Lets change direction for a minute,
I say. You told the jury that you couldnt
find any witnesses who placed
Mr. Hanson somewhere other than the
murder scene at the time Ms. Yamura
was killed.
Not one.
What about the other half of the
equation, the half that you forgot to tell
the jury? Tredesco squints. He knows
where Im going. In all your exhaustive
efforts, with all those people you
interviewed, all those stones you turned,
you didnt find a single witness who
placed Mr. Hanson at the murder scene
that afternoon, either. Isnt that true?
I guess nobody was looking out their
window when he came in and out of the
house.
Im about to move the court to strike
the snide answer, but Judge Henry beats
me to the punch, leaning over the bench
toward the witness. Answer the
question squarely, Detective. Did you
find any witnesses who placed the
defendant at the scene of the murder at
the time of the murder?
Tredesco answers grudgingly. No.
Tredesco and I dance a little more
around the lack of evidence placing
David at the scene when Yamura was
killed, then I move on to another subject.
I understand there was a rash of break-
ins in Ms. Yamuras neighborhood
around the time she was murdered.
Tredesco shrugs. Its Philadelphia.
A couple of the jurors smile.
Two break-ins before the murder
and one afterward, all within a couple
blocks of the house on Addison Street?
I looked into it, thoroughly. There
was nothing to connect the burglaries to
the murder.
One of the burglars was caught. He
was booked and charged and is sitting in
prison. Damian Sheetz. Did you go to the
prison and interview him, try to get a
confession out of him?
I was aware of Mr. Sheetz. I looked
at his rap sheet. There was no history of
violence. Just break-ins. And a bunch of
shoplifting charges. Possession of stolen
goods.
So he was stealing money and
valuables from peoples homes and from
stores, to pay for a drug habit. Tell me,
Detective, what happens when a drug
addict, desperate for a fix, breaks into
someones house to steal something and
is surprised to find the resident inside?
Do they have a nice conversation? A cup
of tea?
He would have run, not attacked
her.
Because running away would be the
smarter thing to do and, being a hard-up
junkie, hed have been thinking
rationally, right? Devlin objects, so I
withdraw the question. Speaking of
drug addicts looking for money and
things to pawn, I continue, please tell
the jury what you did not find at the
murder scene.
I dont know what you mean.
Im talking about Ms. Yamuras
jewelry. And the money from her wallet.
Did you think Mr. Hanson was strapped
for cash? And what about Ms. Yamuras
laptop? That was gone, too. Did you
think Mr. Hanson couldnt afford a new
computer? I fire these questions so fast
Im out of breath by the time Walker
stands and objects.
 The judge sustains the objection.
One question at a time, counselor, he
scolds me, though I can see by the smile
in his eyes that hes enjoying my cross.
I turn back to Tredesco. You can
certainly see that Mr. Hanson has no
need to steal a laptop computer.
Tredesco smiles. Im sure your
client could afford to buy a computer for
every room in his mansion, he says.
For every stateroom on his yacht. He
didnt steal the computer for its cash
value. Our theory is that he wanted the
computer for what was on it. Your client
had a long-term relationship with the
victim. Maybe they sent each other
naughty e-mails. Or sex videos.
I steal a glance at Devlin Walker. He
smiles. I turn back to the witness stand.
And the money? The jewelry? Did you
think Mr. Hanson was short of cash?
Again, Tredesco is ready for me.
This is why we believe the crime was
premeditated. He took the money and
jewelry to make it look like a robbery
gone bad. To use as a defense, like
youre doing for him now.
I turn to the judge and object. This
whole theory should be stricken from the
record. Its all just so much
speculation.
Even before Devlin can answer me,
Tredesco butts in. Its not speculation,
Your Honor, he says, lifting his finger
up to the side of his nose. Its fifteen
years investigating crimes.
 The objection is overruled, says
Judge Henry.
I look back at the witness. You
testified that it struck you as odd that,
when you asked Mr. Hanson where he
was when Ms. Yamura was killed, he
said hed been in the office all
afternoon. Do you remember that?
Tredesco says that he recalls the
testimony. You said his answer made
you conclude he had to have known
when she was killed, yet you hadnt told
him.
Exactly.
But Mr. Hanson had spent some time
in the house before the police came.
Hed have seen the body and seen that
her blood was dried. Hed have known
shed been dead for a while.
I dont know about that. Your
clients not a medical examiner. Or a
police officer.
I spend the next ten minutes grilling
Tredesco about the 911 call, retracing
my questioning of the uniformed officers.
So theres no doubt that someone other
than David Hanson knew about the
goings-on at 1792 Addison Street and
deliberately lied to the police to get
them to show up when Mr. Hanson was
still in the house.
I cant say he lied. Maybe there was
crashing, but nothing got broke.
Things were crashing but nothing got
broke? Did you really just say that?
Tredesco doesnt answer.
 How can that happen? The same
way two people can be shouting at each
other when one of them has been dead
for eight hours?
Objection, Devlin says, an edge to
his voice. Hounding the witness.
Judge Henry sustains the objection.
We get it, Mr. McFarland. Move on.
So we have this other person making
the call. What efforts did you make to
find out who it was and why he lied to
the police?
We tried to trace the call, but it was
made from a disposable cell phone.
A disposable cell phone? Like the
ones drug dealers use?
Tredesco leans over the stand at me.
Like the phones thousands of people
use. Like maybe someone who wants to
report a crime but doesnt want any
blowback.
Blowback?
Witness intimidation! It happens all
the time in this city. Everyone knows
about it. Its all over the papers. Its the
biggest problem we have in making
arrests. No one wants to come forward
because theyre afraid. Tredesco has
scored a point with the jury, and he
knows it. He leans back, satisfied with
himself.
I quickly change the subject and trade
punches with Tredesco for another few
rounds, winning points, losing points.
Finished with the detective, I turn
toward counsel table. Then, as though
Ive just remembered something, I turn
back to the witness. Oh, one more thing.
Your testimony about Mr. Hanson
wanting his coffee heated up and asking
for skim milk?
Yes.
Why do you suppose Mr. Hanson
would ask for milk at all? Given that
hes lactose-intolerant and always drinks
his coffee black?
Tredesco blinks. He knows I
gotchad him. So do the jurors,
several of whom cross their arms and
smirk. Devlins probably stewing. Like
most by-the-book prosecutors, he
doesnt like Tredescos tricks. Hell
have a little talk with the detective, Im
sure, after trial.
 Its 12:30, and Judge Henry dismisses
the jury for lunch.
He hurt us, Vaughn says.
Yep. For all his smarminess,
Tredesco gave the jury two things it
lacked up to now. A reason for taking the
computer and an explanation for why
David would have stolen the cash and
jewelry, too.
Half an hour later, Im sitting at the
defense table, going over my questions
for the next witness, Matthew Stone, the
CSU team leader. I hear the door behind
me and turn to see Vaughn racing for me,
out of breath.
Youre not going to believe whats
all over the news! Vaughn exclaims.
Foreign-aid workers are coming
forward claiming theyve received
millions in under-the-table humanitarian
donations from Hanson World Industries.
They say its been going on for years.
The stories came out first on YouTube,
but now theyre being picked up by the
mainstream news outlets. And get this,
two donations of two million apiece
supposedly showed up in
Let me guess, I interject. South
Sudan.
Vaughn stares at me.
Marcie warned me last night that
something like this was going to break.
The clock on the wall reaches 1:45,
then 2:00, then 2:15, but the trial does
not resume. Mike Holleran tells Devlin
and me that the judge is holed up in his
office, watching TV.
I glance at Devlin.
Another stunt. He sits and murmurs
something to Christina Wesley.
This is tremendous, Vaughn
whispers next to me at counsel table.
Once David is brought into the
courtroom, hell move to his usual seat
next to Marcie. I think we should
demand a mistrial. And if the judge
doesnt go for it, we should ask for a
weeks adjournment to fly those foreign-
aid workers here, have them testify.
I purse my lips, say nothing. Vaughn
can see Im displeased, and hes
confused. Vaughn has no idea that the
case isnt about the case. I look back at
Alexander Ginsberg, who seems
confused himself. He knows that Bill
Henry is not one to be late to court.
Piper, too, casts me a look that says,
Whats happening? The only person
who appears at ease is Marcie, who
smiles when I glance her way.
At 2:30, Holleran ushers David into
the courtroom. A few minutes later, the
judge strides onto the bench, buttoning
his robe on the fly. He begins talking
even before hes seated. We have a
problem, he says. Im going to want to
talk to counsel in my chambers. First,
though, Im going to call in the jury and
dismiss them for the day. Judge Henry
nods to Holleran, who brings in the jury.
He smiles at the jury, tells them he has
good news, theyre getting a break.
Somethings come upan administrative
matter, nothing to do with the caseand
the trial day is being cut short. So go
back to the hotel, relax. Dont talk about
the case. And, most important, as
always, do not, under any circumstance,
listen to the news or read the papers.
The jurors look from the judge to
Devlin and me, and then to one another.
Theyre all thinking the same thing.
Something big about the case has broken
in the media.
Fifteen minutes later Vaughn and I,
along with Devlin Walker and Christina
Wesley, are seated in Judge Henrys
chambers. The judge begins by saying,
Im now convinced that I made a
mistake letting in the evidence about the
money and the trips to Mexico and the
Caymans. Ive been in my chambers for
the past two hours watching news stories
about millions of dollars in under-the-
table humanitarian aid spread around the
world by Hanson World Industries. Its
been going on for years. And,
apparently, it was all being run by the
defendant.
With that, the judge uses his remote to
turn on the television in his office. CNN
comes on with a video clip of David in
some remote, war-torn village. Hes
sitting with a group of villagers. On his
lap is a dark-skinned boy, maybe four or
five years old. David smiles at the boy,
tousles his hair, talks to the camera about
the desperate plight of the villagers. A
second video clip shows David in jeans
and a short-sleeved white shirt leading a
group of adults and children along a path
in some other remote village. David
himself looks to be about five years
younger than he is now.
The judge turns down the sound and
turns back to us.
Your Honor, please. This has to be
some kind of Devlin begins, but the
judge interrupts.
Let me finish. This does not appear
to be fabricated. The foreign-aid
workers themselves are coming forward
with the information. And there are
video clips purportedly showing
Mr. Hanson meeting with these same
workers in a number of villages over a
period of time going back at least five
years.
This part floors me. Id assumed that
Marcies plants were going to come
forward only with claims of recent
donations, money tendered after David
withdrew the $4 million. I imagined that
Marcie could get her hands on another
$4 million and fly it abroad fast enough
to cover Davids tracks. But if the judge
is right, David has been dumping cash
for years.
Why?
Devlin pipes up again, and he and the
judge begin arguing. Their voices fade
into the background as my mind locks on
to what David has been up to. I
remember Marcies threat to Edwin to
disclose HWIs rampant criminality
should he hurt David in court.
Criminality that included illegal payoffs
to foreign officials. And just that fast, I
get it: David has been secreting millions
in humanitarian aid as potential cover
should HWI ever be accused of foreign
bribery and need to account for vast
sums of money disappearing from the
companys coffers. Any congressional
subcommittee poring over HWIs books
would find a paper trail carefully left by
David showing millions of dollars in
HWI funds making their way to the hands
of happy foreign-aid workers ready to
testify to their receipt of the money,
which they then used to feed, clothe, and
educate the worlds poor and
downtrodden. All of which has turned
out to be a massive stroke of luck for
David, who can use the same planted
millions as cover for the money he stole
to pay off the blackmailer. Absolutely
brilliant. Absolutely sinister. Absolutely
David Fucking Hanson.
Mr. McFarland? Its the judge.
What are your thoughts? A limiting
instruction telling the jury to disregard
everything theyve heard about the four
million dollars? Or an outright
mistrial?
I pause a moment to let the question
sink in, bring myself up to speed.
Your Honor, I answer, Id like
some time to think about it. To talk about
it with my client. Certainly a mistrial
would not be unwarranted. But perhaps
a limiting instruction would be enough.
Id like to talk to Mr. Ginsberg as well.
Your Honor may have noticed that hes
been sitting with Mrs. Hanson throughout
the trial.
Yes, of course. Talk to your client.
Talk to Mr. Ginsberg. Think it through.
Just tell me tomorrow.
Your Honor, I really must protest.
Devlins voice is thick with desperation.
As I said before, a limiting instruction
will poison my credibility with the jury.
Youd be telling them that Ive been
spouting nonsense. A mistrial would be
. . . would be . . . its just not
warranted.
Bill Henry turns to me. Im assuming
that your client, or someone from HWI,
would be able to testify that the four
million was in fact used for humanitarian
aid. As part of this larger program. Is
that right?
Im sure thats exactly what
Mr. Hanson would say. But, of course, I
havent decided to call him as a witness.
Your Honor isnt suggesting that I must
call Mr. Hanson to the stand to rebut the
testimony about the four million?
The judge sighs. At this point, Im
not sure what Im suggesting. Lets
everyone sleep on this, and well revisit
it tomorrow.
Half an hour later, Im sitting across
from David in his holding cell.
Let me guess, David begins. The
news of my philanthropic ways has His
Honor out of sorts.
I want to rip David a new one for this
latest ploy. Tell him hell never get away
with it, at least not in the long run. But,
of course, for David there will be no
long run unless he beats the murder
charge. Almost any risk is worth taking.
So I limit myself to a question of tactics:
Why wait? Why rot in prison for three
weeks before springing the news?
I wanted the prosecution to commit
itself at trial. I wanted them to stake their
credibility on it.
But the jurys sequestered, I say.
Theyre not going to know about your
humanitarian efforts.
David laughs. Come on, Mick, you
cant be serious. Do you really believe
that the jurors arent going to get wind of
the story? That they wont spy the
headlines at the newsstands between
here and their hotel? That they wont
channel surf in their rooms, looking for
what the six or ten or eleven oclock
news is saying about the trial? That their
family members wont text them a heads-
up? Really?
David is right, of course. One would
have to be insanely naive to think that the
news of HWIs humanitarian program
wont make its way to the jury.
And once the judge tells the jury to
disregard the prosecutions evidence
regarding my supposed plan to flee
before trial, the jury will think the
prosecution has been caught trying to
pull one over on them. It will taint
Devlin Walkers entire case. David
smiles, and I see behind his blue eyes
the same coal-black intelligence that
flares inside Marcies.
I told you the judge was thinking of a
limiting instruction or a mistrial.
No mistrial, David says instantly. I
wont go through this again. Then he
smiles, sits back, and switches gears
with ease. Thank you for taking care of
Marcie, he says. For explaining
everything to her, letting her explain
things to you. I know Ive told you this
before, but my wife has proven to be a
tremendous asset.
 31
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER
15

Nine a.m. and were all back in the

judges chambers. His Honor has
decided to postpone his decision
between granting a mistrial and giving
the jury a limiting instruction to
disregard the evidence regarding
Davids cash-gathering flights. The
judge did this at my request. On the one
hand, like David, I do not want a
mistrial; this odyssey has to end quickly
for my plan to come to fruition. On the
other hand, Im afraid that a jury
instruction will give David and Marcie
too much confidence. I need them afraid.
For his part, Devlin has fought
mightily against either a mistrial or a
limiting instruction. Now, with the
judges decision to put the issue on hold,
Devlin is fit to be tied. Hes clutching
the armrests of his chair so hard his
knuckles are white.
All right, then, the judge says. Ill
see everyone in court at 9:30. And from
here on out, I want things to run fast
and smoothly.
Thirty minutes later, the trial resumes
and Devlin calls Matthew Stone, the
lead investigator for the Crime Scene
Unit. Stone is the polar opposite of John
Tredesco. Hes pushing forty but looks
ten years younger. He has large eyes,
short-but-stylish blond hair, and an open
face. Self-deprecating and quick to
smile, Stone is someone most people
find instantly likable. I know from
experience that hes also a completely
honest cop.
After some preliminary questions
about Stones background, Devlin gets
down to business.
Stone explains what was done to
secure the premises and preserve the
integrity of the crime scene. Then, with
the courts permission, he steps down
from the witness stand, positions himself
next to the big screen, and addresses the
jury.
I have stipulated to the admissibility
of diagrams of the house, so Devlin has
Stone pull them up on the screen. The
first diagram depicts the first floorthe
kitchen and living room and the short
hallway between them containing the
door to the powder room and the
doorway to the basement behind the
curtain of glass beads. The second
diagram shows the basement, including
the steps.
Then comes the emotional evidence.
At Devlins request, Stone pulls up the
first picture, showing Jennifers body
lying on the steps. It is an overhead
picture, taken from the top of the steps.
As they did during Devlins opening,
some of the jurors look away. They take
a few seconds to steel themselves, then
look directly at the photo as Matthew
Stone tells them what theyre seeing.
Stone describes what the photo
depicts, then pulls up another shot, a
close-up taken just inches below
Jennifers battered head. Dried blood is
caked all over her matted hair. The
jurors stare at the image, some of their
faces turning gray.
Devlin has Stone describe the hair
and bloodstains on the fifth and sixth
stairs, which are consistent with having
been stricken by the back of Jennifers
head when she fell. Then he pulls up a
photograph of Jennifers knees, and
Stone describes the fresh scrape
injuries.
Did you form any conclusions as to
how she sustained the injuries to her
knees, given that she fell backward
down the stairs?
Stone nods and pulls up a photograph
of the basement floor. When we began
to study the basement, I saw what I
thought may have been blood traces on
the concrete floor. The floor also
smelled of household cleanser. So we
sprayed luminol to see if there was more
latent blood on the floor than could be
seen with the naked eye. Sure enough,
there was a trail of blood along the
floor, starting at the bottom of the stairs
and continuing for about five feet. The
injuries to the victims knees were
consistent with her having crawled along
the rough cement of the floor.
Devlin pauses to let the testimony
sink in with the jurors. Then he asks
Stone to tie it all together. Please
explain to the jury what this physical
evidence led you to conclude about the
nature of the crime and how it was
committed.
Stone inhales, then looks at the jurors.
The victim was pushed through the
beaded curtain. She fell backward. The
back of her head struck the fifth step
with great force, and it struck the sixth
step as well. The steps were old
wooden steps with rough, splintered
edges, and we found remnants of hair,
skin, and bone on each of these two
steps. The victim lay there for some
indeterminate minutes, then managed to
get off the steps and crawl along the
basement floor, trailing blood the whole
way.
Here, Devlin stops Stone. But the
victim was found on the steps, her head
lying on the concrete floor at the bottom
of the steps, feet toward the top. Having
left the stairs, why would she have gone
back?
She didnt. Someone dragged her
back to the stairs and positioned her
head down, on her back. And, there, she
bled out and died.
Devlin pauses to give the jury time to
chew on the image of this lovely young
woman, desperately crawling on hands
and knees trying to get away from her
assailant, who pursues her and finishes
the job he started when he pushed her
down the stairs. I turn slightly to the left,
just enough to glimpse Jennifers mother
weeping.
Devlin starts up again, switches
gears. Did you find any evidence of a
break-in? Jimmied locks on the doors,
broken windowpanes?
There was nothing like that.
What did that tell you?
That the perpetrator either had his
own key, or he was let into the house by
the victim. If the latter was the case,
theres a strong chance she knew him.
Stones final words cause several of the
jurors to look at David.
Devlin asks a series of questions
establishing Davids presence in the
house. Stone testifies that Davids
fingerprints were found throughout the
house, as were strands of his hair. Stone
also describes the items of Davids
clothing found in the master bedroom
closet: a suit, some shirts, shoes, boxers
all in Davids sizesalong with some
ties and a belt.
Devlin concludes his questioning, and
Judge Henry orders a fifteen-minute
break for everyone to stretch their legs.
As soon as the jury returns, I start in
on Matthew Stone. You began by telling
the jury that part of crime-scene
processing is to secure and control the
areadid I hear that right?
Yes.
And this idea of securing the crime
scene is a fundamental principle of
crime-scene processing, isnt that true?
A golden rule, so to speak?
I think thats fair to say.
And a key part of securing the crime
scene is restricting access?
Yes.
The integrity of the crime scene must
be maintained, and that means you dont
allow people to come in and drop hairs
and prints and dirt all over your crime
scene, right?
Absolutely.
But it didnt quite work out that way
for you in this case, did it?
My question takes Stone aback.
I dont know what youre talking
about.
Your crime scene was invaded and
contaminated by someone who had no
business being there. Stone doesnt
answer, just stares at me. He has no idea
where Im going with this. I press
forward, saying, You hadnt even been
at that crime scene for an hour when
someone came innot wearing booties,
not wearing gloves, not wearing a
plastic cap on his hairand traipsed all
over that house. Isnt that so?
Stone gets it now and turns to Devlin.
I follow his eyes and say, Yes, it
was Mr. Walker himself. Id learned
about Devlins intrusion onto the crime
scene from Tommy, who found out about
it from an acquaintance on Stones CSU
team.
Devlin shoots to his feet, objects, and
demands a sidebar. Judge Henry
overrules the objection and refuses the
sidebar but tells me to get to the point.
How long was he there before you
knew he was there? I ask Stone.
I dont know.
Because he didnt sign in? I dont
wait for Stone to answer. He just
waved his DA credentials, and your
officers let him in, isnt that right?
I spoke to my team about that
afterward. I do remember that now.
Their letting him in and his presence
in the house upset you at the time?
Stone exhales loudly. I wasnt
happy.
When your men dusted the house for
prints, did you find Mr. Walkers
prints?
Well, yes. As we just discussed, he
came to the house.
Did you find hair samples belonging
to an African American?
Stones eyes bore into me now. Yes.
Along with your clients prints.
Did Mr. Walker go into the basement
after he entered the house?
I believe so, at some point.
Is it possible Mr. Walker tracked
some of the victims blood across the
basement floor?
 Devlins on his feet again.
Objection! This is ridiculous!
The idea that Devlin tracked
Jennifers blood all over the basement
floor is, indeed, absurd. Ive gone too
far, and the judge sustains the objection
and tells me to move on to another
subject. I dont mind that Im being shut
down at this point. This entire line of
questioning isnt for the jury anyway
its for Walker himself. Hell know why
soon enough.
I ask whether, in addition to Davids
and Devlins prints, the CSU team found
other prints. Stone says yes, a number of
prints. Then theres no question that
Mr. Hanson and Mr. Walker were not the
only men to have been in that house prior
to Ms. Yamuras death?
No.
I pause and switch tracks. Earlier,
youd said there was no evidence of a
break-in, and you based that on the lack
of broken windows or jimmied locks.
You said that indicated to you that the
perpetrator either had his own key or
was let in by Ms. Yamura. But theres a
third option, isnt there?
Stone takes the question seriously and
considers it. Before he can answer, I say,
The doors, or at least one of them,
could simply have been unlocked.
Uh . . .
If a door was unlocked, anyonea
neighbor, burglar, thiefcould have
walked into the house without the need
to jimmy locks or break windows,
right?
Well, yes.
And isnt that the first thing a burglar
does when hes trying to get into
someones house to rob it? Check to see
if a door is unlocked so he wont have to
pry his way in?
I suppose.
And had the door been unlocked, so
that the burglar gained entry without a
sound, he could have suddenly happened
upon Ms. Yamura and attacked her once
she saw him, before she had a chance to
scream, right?
Thats possible, Stone concedes,
though, in my experience, most burglars
dont commit violent crimes, especially
murder. Even under duress.
Unless theyre two-time losers, and
one more strike will get them life, I say.
Devlin objects and the court sustains
him, but my point has been made.
So, now that were talking about a
home invasion, lets discuss all the
things that your crime-scene
investigation found to be missing. Would
you pull up one of the photographs
showing Ms. Yamuras wallet? The
witness does so. Thats it? Lying open
on the kitchen counter?
Yes.
Had it been emptied of all the
cash?
There was no money in it.
Please pull up one of your pictures
of Ms. Yamuras bureau, in her
bedroom. Again, the witness complies.
The drawers have all been opened?
Yes.
You found them that way when you
arrived?
Yes.
But her clothing was inside,
including her underwear?
Uh, yes. Stone sounds confused.
So the perpetrator wasnt a pervert
looking for womens undergarments?
Ah, no.
As to what he was looking for, is
that a jewelry box sitting on top of the
bureau?
Yes.
Also with all its drawers opened?
 Yes.
Any jewelry inside?
No.
Did you find Ms. Yamuras laptop
computer?
There was no laptop.
How hard did you look?
At this question, Matthew Stone
glances at Devlin. We did a thorough
search.
Because the prosecutor, who wasnt
supposed to be there, told you to scour
the house for the laptop?
He didnt say laptop. He just said to
look for any computers. We would have
done that anyway, Matthew adds
indignantly.
Was he upset when you told him you
couldnt find the laptop?
Objection. Devlin is on his feet.
This is nothing more than
grandstanding, Your Honor.
Sustained. Mr. McFarland, this case
is not about Mr. Walker. I instruct you to
stop with this line of questioning.
Yes, Your Honor. I glance at
Devlin. Hes pissed at me, but theres
something more in his eyes than mere
annoyance. Im hitting a nerve, as I knew
I would.
And in addition to Ms. Yamuras
expensive laptop, her cash and jewelry,
is it true that you also didnt find her
iPhone?
No, we didnt. We learned of the
calls to your office from subpoenaing the
records from her carrier, Verizon.
I stare at Matthew Stone. Hes
looking back at me guilelessly. Hes just
made a huge mistake, but he doesnt
know it. The jury was not supposed to
hear that calls were made to my office
from Yamuras phone. I know Stone well
enough to know that he would never
intentionally mention evidence excluded
by the court. Hes too straight a shooter.
This was a mistake on Devlins part.
Hed told Tredesco not to mention the
calls. Probably had to tell the detective
ten times. But he forgot to tell Stone.
But now the jury has learned about
the calls, and they dont know the
background. I glance at the panel, and I
know what theyre thinking: Calls from
the victims phone to the defendants
lawyer? What calls? Why havent we
heard about them? The jurors appear to
be confused. All of themexcept for
their foreman, Mr. Peter Drummond. I
look at him and see that he is looking at
me, having inferred the message that
Devlin wanted to send all along. That
David, in a panic over having killed
Jennifer Yamura, used her cell phone to
call me, his law-school classmate and
chum. In the foremans mind, David and
I have now been in this thing together
from the beginning.
All these thoughts go through my own
mind in a split second. When I recover, I
see Judge Henry looking down at me
from the bench, expecting that Ill object,
ask the court to strike the testimony
about the phone calls. But all that would
do is highlight the point, so I keep quiet.
I smile at Matthew Stone and plow
ahead. So. Stolen cash, stolen jewelry,
stolen computer, stolen phone. And
maybe the victim left the door unlocked?
Does that pretty much summarize what
weve just gone over?
The witness shrugs. I guess. In part.
Nothing surprising to you as a police
officer, given that the invasion at
Ms. Yamuras home happened in the
midst of a crime spree in her
neighborhood.
Stone admits that hed heard of the
break-ins near Jennifers house but says
he hadnt been briefed on the details.
 I tell the court I have no more
questions for the witness, and Judge
Henry turns to Devlin. But Devlin
doesnt even bother to redirect. He
doesnt need to. The damage has been
done. The image of Jenniferwounded,
bleeding, and desperate, crawling along
her basement floor trying in vain to
escape the murdereris seared into the
jurors minds. Im also certain that no
one has forgotten about the phone calls
placed from Jennifers cell phone to
David Hansons attorneyto me.

Judge Henry calls the lunch break, and I

watch the jurors file out of the box and
out of the courtroom. For the most part,
they keep their eyes on the floor. Except
for the foreman, Drummond, who looks
directly at the defense table as he exits
the box. He holds my eyes for a long
time.
After the jury is gone, David is taken
away and the courtroom empties. Piper
smiles wanly at me, then follows the
others out the door. The only ones left
other than my team and me are Devlin,
Christina Wesley, and John Tredesco,
who hovers by the back door. The
detective sees me looking at him and
slowly stretches his thin, bloodless lips
into a predatory smile. I keep my face
blank of emotion, then turn away,
catching Devlin Walker staring at me.
Though not as blatant about it as
Tredesco, hes smiling, too.

Back at the firm for lunch, I spend a few

minutes at my desk, then go directly into
the conference room. Marcie sits before
an untouched salad. I fix myself a
sandwich, pick up a bottle of Fiji water,
take a seat across the table from her.
Marcie stares at me, her eyes flat.
So, she says, tell me about these
phone calls.
I take a swig of water and explain the
calls in detail. Jennifers first call to the
office, placed through Angie, during
which she asked me to represent her and
we set up a meeting. The second call
went directly to my phone because
Angie was at lunch. Yamura sounded
panicked and asked to move up our
meeting.
Why was she panicked? Marcie
asks.
I dont know. I never got the chance
to ask her.
Do you think someone was with her
when she called that second time?
She didnt say so.
When did she want to meet?
I pause. The first time she called, I
scheduled a meeting for four oclock the
next day, Friday. She called the second
time because she wanted to meet earlier,
Friday morning. I checked my calendar.
It was clear, so I said okay.
And that was all you two talked
about?
She hung up. I got the impression she
didnt want to discuss any details over
the phone.
Marcie studies me, much like our jury
foreman had. Then she turns and leaves
without looking back.
I sit by myself for a couple of
minutes, take a few bites of my
sandwich, and finish the water. Then I
pick up my notes, stop in Vaughns
office, and tell him Im heading back to
court. When I get to the tenth floor of the
courthouse, I spot Piper sitting on a long
bench by the window. She smiles when
she sees me but doesnt get up, waits for
me to reach the bench and sit beside her.
You never came back to the office
for lunch, I say.
Im too nervous to eat, she says.
Its been so long. Id forgotten how
tense your trials are.
Someones freedom is on the line, I
say. Their whole life, really.
Piper and I sit quietly for a while.
Then I pat her gently on her leg, lean
over, and kiss her on the forehead.
Once more into the fray.

Devlins first witness of the afternoon is

Ari Weintraub, the deputy chief medical
examiner. As he did with Matthew
Stone, Devlin has the medical examiner
pull up photographs of Jennifers body.
Unlike the CSU officer, Ari doesnt
leave the stand. He uses a laser pointer
to direct the jurors attention to specific
parts of the photographs. He begins the
meat of his testimony with a detailed
discussion of the autopsy. Reading off
the postmortem reports, he begins with
the personal data: thirty-one-year-old
female, Asian, single; address 1792
Addison Street, Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania. She was pronounced
dead at the scene and taken to the
medical examiners office. The
following day, I performed the
postmortem examination myself, Ari
says, and begins by describing the
clothing he removed from Jennifers
body. Continuing to his external
examination, Weintraub describes
Jennifers body as measuring sixty-two
inches and weighing one hundred and
five pounds. He continues in this
clinical vein as he describes the
reporters hair color and length, the
color and clarity of her eyes, and other
routine details.
Then Ari gets to the head wounds,
and the picture show begins. The first
photo he chooses is a middle-distance
shot of the back of Jennifers head, to
give the jurors an idea of what theyre
looking at. He pauses for a moment, then
switches to a much closer shot, showing
a tangle of matted black hair and dried
blood littered with bloodied particles of
gray and white. Again, reading from his
report, Weintraub states, There were
two overlapping wounds to the parietal
area of the skull, right of center. The first
wound was the big one. It consisted of a
visibly depressed, comminuted fracture
measuring five-point-two centimeters by
four-point-four centimeters, with
extrusion of bone. The wound extended
through the skull bone and dura and into
the subdural space. The second was a
one-centimeter fracture just below the
first wound.
Would you explain to the jury what it
was about these wounds that caused the
massive blood loss?
Yes. The first blow severed the right
occipital artery. Thats a branch of the
external carotid artery, responsible for
supplying blood to a good portion of the
posterior scalp, along with some
muscles in the neck and back.
And what does the force of that first
blow tell you about what caused the
wounds? Devlin asks.
The first wound, the large one, is
consistent with the victims head-strike
to the steps after shed been pushed.
I object. Theres no direct evidence
the victim was pushed, as opposed to
having fallen.
Devlin smiles. Dr. Weintraub, please
address Mr. McFarlands remark.
Ari pulls up an autopsy photograph of
Yamuras upper torso. The photograph
depicts two large brownish marks just
below each shoulder and above each
breast. What youre seeing here are two
large bruises. They would not, could not,
have been caused by the fall, as she
landed on her back. They must have been
caused before she fell, and they are
consistent with someone using the palms
of their hands to push the victim, hard.
Very hard.
Devlin pauses to let this sink in.
Would it have been possible, with the
victims blood loss, for her to have
retained sufficient consciousness to get
herself off the steps and crawl along the
floor?
She likely would have been
unconscious for some period of time
after the first blow. But given her youth
and fitness, it is entirely possible that
she regained some level of
consciousness, appreciated her
predicament, and sought to save
herself.
The jurors take this in and exchange
glances among themselves.
Weintraub takes the jury through the
scenario of Jennifer, spilling blood from
the back of her head, crawling across the
basement floor, scraping her knees as
she moved. Then Devlin asks if it was
possible that Jennifer herself crawled
back onto the steps in an attempt to get
upstairs but didnt make it and fell down
again.
Highly unlikely, Ari says, given
that she ended up head down, on her
back. If shed tried to crawl up the stairs
and lost consciousness while doing so,
she would simply have stopped moving
and ended up lying facedown with her
head at the top and her feet at the
bottom.
Dr. Weintraub, would the blood loss
from the fall have killed the victim had
she not been placed back onto the step,
head down?
Ari takes a minute to think about this.
Eventually, perhaps. As I said, the first
wound severed the occipital artery. But
whats certain is that her death was
guaranteed when she was placed back
onto the steps, head down, and allowed
to bleed out.
 Devlin pauses, pours himself a glass
of water, drinks. Then, as if hed just
thought about it, he asks, Given that the
victim was sufficiently conscious to
crawl off the steps and to appreciate
what was happening to her, could she
have had the presence of mind to have
been pleading for her life at this point?
I object immediately.
The judge correctly sustains my
objection, and Devlin continues. But
Jennifers mother is sobbing again, and
the jurors are looking at her. The jurors
are also looking at David, and theyre
not hiding how they feel about him. I
know now for certain that weve lost the
jury. The image of the bloodied young
woman, crawling across the floor in a
desperate attempt to flee, probably
begging for her life while David drags
her back to the steps and positions her
there to die is simply too much.
And finally, Doctor, would you tell
the jury your opinion as to the time of
death?
Yes, certainly. Based upon the
victims weight and the temperature of
the liver taken at the scene, and the
advanced degree of rigor mortis, the
ambient air temperatures in the house are
consistent with a time of death between
noon and two oclock on the day the
victim was found.
So, then, Devlin asks, if the
defendant left his office at 11:50 and it
took him fifteen minutes to walk to 1792
Addison Street, his arrival time of 12:05
would be within the time of death?
Yes.
Devlin asks a few more questions,
then thanks the witness and turns him
over to me.
I rise, walk around the defense table,
and move to within a few feet of the jury.
I turn to face the witness so that the jury
is now on my left. In a quiet voice, I
begin. So, Doctor, were all agreed
both the prosecution and the defenseas
to how this young woman died. She died
of massive blood loss from the artery
severed as a result of blunt-force trauma
to the back of her head.
Thats what I testified to, yes.
But this trial isnt about how the
victim diedwe all agree on thatits
about who killed her, true?
Its about both.
And the only thing the physical
evidence tells us about the killer, I say,
ignoring his answer, is that, if your
theory is right, the person had to be
strong enough to carry or drag the victim
from the basement floor back to the
stairs.
I would agree that the perpetrator
was strong enough to do that.
But that could be virtually any man
in the city, couldnt it?
I dont know about that.
Virtually all of the men and at least
some of the women, right?
Well . . .
 Mr. Hanson would certainly be
strong enough, right?
Id expect.
But so would a former high school
basketball star, like Mr. Walker.
Objection! Devlins on his feet.
Again, Your Honor, this is beyond
inappropriate. Its offensive to the
dignity of the court.
The judge calls counsel to the bench
for a sidebar and launches into me as
soon as we get there.
Mr. McFarland, this really is quite
enough, the judge says.
This is a murder trial, I answer.
Im entitled to some leeway.
Leeway? Devlin spits the word.
Go down this road one more time,
Bill Henry says, and Ill sanction you in
the presence of the jury. Do you
understand me?
I say I do, and Devlin and I move
back to our places.
Thank you, Your Honor, I say, the
old trial lawyers trick to make the jury
think the judge came out on my side.
What are you thanking me for? the
judge says, not letting me get away with
my ruse. Your behavior was out of line,
and I told you so.
Now would be a perfect time to stop,
sit, and bury my head in my legal pad.
But I have to press on. Theres one final
point that Devlin snuck in on direct that I
must address, a point I anticipated from
my reading of the autopsy findings.
Devlin didnt ask it directly, and I
suspect its because he left it for my
crossa little bomb to go off all over
me. A bomb that I, too, want to detonate.
Dr. Weintraub, you were asked a
question about whether the victim could
have been pleading as she crawled along
the basement floor. You didnt find any
physical evidence as to that. And, in
fact, the head wounds and blood loss
would have left the victim in an
impaired state of consciousness. So
impaired that she really didnt
understand what was happening to her,
isnt that right?
No, I think thats wrong, the
medical examiner says, pulling up a
close-up photograph of Jennifers face.
These dried salt deposits track down
from the victims eye ducts.
I stare at Ari as though I dont
understand.
She was crying, Mr. McFarland. The
victim was crying.
 32
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER
15, CONTINUED

Jennifer Yamuras mothers quiet sobs

intensify into all-out weeping. Her
husband and son lean in from both sides
to comfort her, but it does no good.
There is no other sound in the courtroom
until the judge directs me to continue.
I run through a few more questions,
vanilla stuff, then pass the witness.
Turning to take my seat next to David, I
catch Marcie glaring at me. The other
person whose face Im drawn to is
Piper. She has the dazed look of
someone whos just been kicked by a
horse.
As was the case with Matthew Stone,
Devlin doesnt bother to redirect. I
expect, at this point, that Devlin will
rest. I would were I in his place.
Instead, he stands and announces, As
our last witness, the Commonwealth will
present Brian Yamura. And just that
fast, the courtroom is electrified.
The victims twin brother.
I feel David stiffen next to me as he
picks up a pen and draws a big question
mark on the legal pad between us. I
quietly tell him I dont know what Brian
Yamura is going to say. Hes on the
prosecutions witness list, but there was
never a chance we were going to get a
statement from him.
Everyone in the courtroom follows
Jennifers brother in his slow procession
through the gate, past the jury box, and
onto the stand. Hes a good-looking
young man, thirty-one, like his sister.
Thin and athletic and insanely wealthy,
he walks poised, shoulders back and
head up.
Devlin asks a few background
questions, then gets right down to why
Brian has been called as a witness.
Were you close with your sister?
We were twins, Brian says. We
knew each other before we were born.
Of course, Devlin nods. And you
remained close throughout your lives?
We were best friends. Jen was more
of a people person than I am. I was the
tech nerd, so I turned to her for advice
about how to handle personal situations.
She was always helping me out with my
girlfriends. Lord knows, he adds,
shaking his head, I needed it.
And on the other side of the coin,
Devlin asks, did you help your sister
with her relationships?
Like I said, Jen was good with
people. And she had a good head on her
shoulders. She never needed my help
with men, as a rule.
Were there any exceptions to that
rule?
Brian Yamura inhales. Just one. Her
relationship with . . . him. Brian turns
toward David, and the jurors eyes
follow him. Shed told me that shed
met someone very special. An important
man. Someone powerful and rich. But
there was a problem. The man was
married. Here, Brian closes his eyes,
lowers his head. I told her she was
crazy to get involved with a married
man, especially some rich, older guy,
he says, opening his eyes and looking at
the jury. I told her guys like that only
want to use younger women like toys.
She told me not to worry, she could take
care of herself. She said that this guy
wasnt like those others. He really cared
about her.
Devlin pauses to let the first chapter
of the story sink in. So what happened
as time went on?
For a long time, nothing. I mean,
nothing bad. Jen and I would call each
other, and she always sounded happy,
told me it was going great with him.
And then?
Jennifers brother pauses again, looks
at Devlin, then past him to the seats in
the back of the courtroom. This puzzles
me, so I turn to see who Brian is looking
for. I spot him instantly: John Tredesco.
And now I know whats going onand
whats coming. Brian is acting out a
story fed to him by Tredesco. I can
easily envision how it unfolded.
Tredesco probably approached the
young man in the hallway, expressed his
condolences, told Jennifers brother how
badly Tredesco and the whole
prosecution team wants to see David
Hanson convicted. Unfortunately, though,
the prosecution has no evidence of a
motive. Like if Hanson had wanted to
break up with your sister, but she loved
him and didnt want to. In my mind, I
can hear Tredesco spoon-feeding the
story to the angry, devastated brother.
Peppering it with the threat that, absent a
motive, the jury will be forced to find
David Hanson not guilty, even if they
believe he did it.
Tredesco catches me staring at him
and nods.
 I turn back toward the front of the
courtroom, where Devlin is asking Brian
Yamura to tell the jury what his sister
told him toward the end.
The last couple times we spoke, Jen
told me the defendant was showing a
side of himself he hadnt shown before.
Like he was Jekyll and Hyde. He tried to
kick her out of the house on a moments
notice.
I could object to all this as hearsay.
But I want this damning testimony in. It
will scare David and Marcie and move
me closer to my endgame.
Jennifer was afraid, Brian
continues. She told me so, and I could
hear it in her voice. But the thing was,
she loved him. And she said she
believed he really loved her, too, deep
down. But he had a wife he felt he
couldnt get away from. So Jen was
going to do something about it.
Do what?
She was going to tell his wife.
About them.
When was this, exactly?
Brian inhales, looks up at the ceiling,
then back at the jurors. The night before
the police found her. It was 6:00 p.m. my
time, so it had to be nine here on the East
Coast. I called to see how she was
doing. We talked for a long time. Thats
when she told me she was going to come
clean with his wife. She said shed warn
the defendant first. Give him a chance to
get ready for whatever his wife might
do. Then she was going to call their
house and lay the cards on the table.
And just like that, Devlin has motive.
A cheating husbands lover threatens to
disclose the affair to his wife. He freaks
out, pushes her down the stairs.
I can already hear Devlin Walker
replay it in his closing argument. I can
see the jurors leaning forward in their
seats as Devlins oratory sweeps them
into the final, terrible moments of
Jennifer Yamuras life. Except that
Devlin will never get that chance; I have
to make sure of it.
Devlin thanks Brian Yamura for his
testimony, and the judge turns the
witness over to me. Instead of walking
to center court, seizing control of a
hostile witness, I remain seated. My
message to the jury: I will question the
victims brother, but I will not bully him.
Mr. Yamura, let me begin by
expressing my heartfelt sorrow for your
loss. Ive never begun a cross like this,
and my words are not a ploy. My heart is
truly breaking for Brian Yamura, his
mother, his father. Jennifer Yamura
didnt deserve to be killed, and her
family doesnt deserve to suffer as they
are. You shared with all of us that you
and your sister were close and spoke
often. I assume Jennifer told you about
the trouble she was in with Mr. Walker
and the crooked cops?
Brian Yamura stares at me, and I can
tell Ive hit home. Behind me, Devlin is
undoubtedly squirming in his seat,
because Im opening a part of the
narrative that he chose not to share with
Brian Yamuraor the jury.
Did your sister tell you that shed
broken a story on a ring of crooked
police officers in Philadelphia?
Yes.
Did she tell you that, in doing so, she
made public a grand jury whose very
existence was being kept secret by
Mr. Walker, the prosecutor here?
She told me about the grand jury.
Did she tell you that Mr. Walker
subpoenaed her to a grand jury, then
personally threatened her with contempt
and imprisonment if she didnt show up
and disclose the source of her
information?
That was him? Brian Yamura looks
at Devlin as he answers. Hes
wondering why the same guy who was
threatening his sister is the one now
seeking to avenge her death.
Yes, it was, I say. Did your sister
share with you that she was afraid of the
crooked cops whose names she
revealed?
Brian hesitates but answers honestly,
to a point. Maybe a little afraid.
Are you aware that one of the police
officers who ratted on the others was
gunned down on a city street?
Devlin objects, but this time the judge
overrules him.
I think I heard something about that.
Brian Yamura answers my question, but
hes not looking at me or the jury. Hes
looking at Devlin Walker.
Thank you, Mr. Yamura. I know this
is difficult for you.
As I expected would be the case, my
cross has done nothing to undermine
Brian Yamuras testimony, and Devlin
knows it.
No questions, Your Honor, Devlin
says. The Commonwealth rests.
The judge calls us to the bench. Once
were in position, he says, Im going to
tell the jury to disregard everything
theyve heard about the defendants trips
to Mexico and Grand Cayman, and the
four million dollars. Devlin begins to
protest, but the judge puts up his hand,
telling Devlin, If you want me to
reconsider, file a motion. Ill consider it
carefully, but I have to tell you now that
Im not likely to change my mind. And
theres not going to be a mistrial, he
adds, looking at me.
Ten minutes later, Im standing in the
spectator benches with my team
Vaughn, Marcie, and Alexander
Ginsberg. This is the first time Piper
hasnt left the courtroom as soon as the
trial day is over. She stands one row
behind us.
Alexander, your thoughts? I ask.
Youve been doing a great job, he
says. But today . . . Here he turns to
Marcie. I dont mean to be insensitive,
Mrs. Hanson, but I have to be candid
today has been a train wreck for the
defense. The brutality of the crime, the
picture of the victim crawling away,
maybe begging for her life, crying, really
got the jury. The methodical way the
killer retrieved her, took her back to the
steps to bleed out . . . That speaks to
premeditation. And Brian Yamura gave
the prosecution the only thing it lacked:
motive.
I look to Vaughn, who nods in
agreement. I glance back at Piper. Shes
frozen in place. I nod, then look back at
Ginsberg, who continues. You have one
chance here, Mick. This jury is
absolutely convinced that, at the time
Jennifer Yamura was murdered, your
client was right there with her. You have
to present the jury with a compelling
alibi. Your client has to take the stand,
convince them he was somewhere else.
Convince them beyond a reasonable
doubt.
But its the prosecutions burden to
prove . . . Pipers voice startles us all.
Ginsberg, Vaughn, and Marcie pivot
around to look at her.
Youre quite right, Ginsberg says.
In theory. But when the prosecution has
put on a case as emotionally compelling
as the one presented here, to the point
that the jury wants to convict, it becomes
the burden of the defensein fact, if not
in lawto come forward with
irrefutable evidence showing the
prosecutions view to be frankly false.
To put it simply, you have to put the lie
to the prosecutions entire case.
I look at Marcie and, in a voice loud
enough for everyone to hear and strong
enough to bring home my point, I say,
Davids going to have to testify to
where he was at the time of the murder.
And hell need to give the jury
something more than his word. Hell
need corroboration.
I let my little speech hang in the air.
Then I tell everyone to go home and get
a good nights sleep. I walk Piper into
the hallway and tell her Ill be home by
eight or nine. Ive got to meet with
David in his holding cell now, then get
ready for tomorrow.
Piper asks me who my first witness is
going to be.
David, I answer. I have to get his
alibi before the jury. I hate to have to put
him on the stand because Devlin will eat
him alive. But I just dont see any other
way.
Piper looks away, looks through the
window to the sky outside. For a second,
I wonder whether, mentally, shes flying
through that window, leaving this sad
scene behind, like I did the morning my
mother fell dead on the floor.
Ill see you when you get home, she
says.
My meeting with David is brief. He
expresses his distress over the days
events, reserving special scorn for Brian
Yamura. Everything he said was a
goddamned lie. I never told Jennifer that
I was going to break up with her. And
Jennifer never said she was going to
Marcie. We never fought. It was a
relationship of convenience, and we
were both happy with it.
I sit with my arms crossed, watch
David pace his cell, whining as though
he were the victim in all this. I dont
think I have ever hated someone as much
as I hate David Hanson. I curtly take my
leave of him and walk into the hall,
where I spot Piper exiting the ladies
room. In a few seconds, Marcie exits
behind her. Both women seem taken
aback when they see me but do their best
to recover quickly. We ride the elevator
down to the first floor, no one saying
anything. Marcie bolts out ahead of
Piper and me. I walk Piper to an
entrance to the underground garage. Then
I head back to the firm.
When I get to my office, I close the
door, sink into my chair, put my elbows
on the desk, and bury my face in my
hands. I think of Jennifer Yamura and am
suddenly overwhelmed by the picture
painted by the prosecution of the young
woman, her head already bloodied,
crawling on the basement floor in a vain
attempt to save her life. My thoughts then
skip to Gabby and Piper. There is
nothing I wouldnt do to protect my own
little family. I shiver, and think again
how weary I am. But, of course, I must
press forward. The major battles lie
ahead.
Everything will be won or lost in the
next twenty-four hours.
I work late, ensuring that Gabby will
be long in bed before I get home.
Because if Ive done my work as well as
I think I have, I know what awaits me
with Piper.

An hour later, I turn into my driveway,

press the button that opens the garage
door, and pull inside. The kitchen light is
off. Pipers car is here, so she must be,
too, though I see no evidence of her
presence. The house is soundless. The
television is not on. There is no music
coming from the Sonos sound system.
Hello? I call out. Piper? Gabby? No
one answers. Even Franklin seems to be
gone. I make my way through the kitchen,
down the hall, and into the living room,
which is also dark. But once there, I see
a dim light. I follow it from the living
room and down the short hallway
leading to my office.
And there sits Piper, in the shadows,
on the leather couch. Shes wearing the
same outfit she had on in court, except
that her shoes are on the floor next to
her. An open bottle of wine and an empty
glass sit on the coffee table in front of
the couch. The only light is provided by
the green bankers lamp sitting on my
desk, across the room.
 Piper? Are you all right?
For a long moment, Pipers face
remains hidden in shadow. Then she
slowly looks up at me, her face
contorted with pain. It was me.
 33
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER
15, CONTINUED

I was with David. Im his alibi.

Piper returns her gaze to the floor as I
lower myself into the chair facing her. I
let Pipers confession hang in the air
between us.
This is it. Every step Ive taken,
every move Ive made since Jennifer
Yamuras death, was designed to bring
Piper and me to this moment. And I
know as I cross the threshold that
everything hangs in the balance. I have to
keep focus, keep my emotions locked
down, as I have for so long.
The grandfather clocks pendulum
slowly strokes the seconds. Piper gently
rocks her body, almost to the beat of the
clock. Shes weeping softly now.
We didnt plan it. It just happened.
Ive done my best to ready myself for
this. But I still feel my body stiffen in my
chair as she speaks.
I was at the mall one day. David
happened to be there, too. He came up to
me, and we started talking. He suggested
we walk to the Starbucks, have some
coffee. We talked for a long time. He
was funny. And sweet. And sad over
what was happening to Marcie. The
cancer. We finished our coffee, left the
mall, and said good-bye. A couple
weeks later, David called me, said he
was out at the mall again, asked me if I
wanted to join him for another coffee. It
was close to five oclock when I got
there, so we decided to get a drink. You
were in Pittsburgh, speaking at some
legal conference.
My stomach is churning, but I control
my breathing, remain expressionless.
Gabby was with my parents. Here,
Piper pauses, fills her glass, takes a sip
of wine. That was the first time. She
takes a bigger sip, then starts to fill in
the blanks. The initial guilt over what
shed done. Followed quickly by a
second time, then a third, until she and
David had a standing date every other
week at one luxury hotel or another, until
...
My face burns with shame and anger,
but I dont interrupt.
That day, the day . . . she died.
David and I were going to meet at the
Rittenhouse. I checked in to the hotel,
ordered up some lunch. Then I left the
hotel to shop a little.
Thats when I saw you on the street.
You were carrying a Lululemon bag. It
was stuffed.
Piper nods. I went to the Holts
Cigar store. David told me they were
getting in some special type of cigar, so I
bought him a box.
So he could have a smoke after you
were done screwing? I want to shout the
words, but I hold back.
I put it in the big Lululemon bag,
under the clothes Id bought. I went back
to the hotel, and David called me later,
just before two oclock. He was upset,
said something awful had happened but
that hed be there soon.
I put up a hand to stop her. The
police subpoenaed his cell-phone
records. There was no record of any
calls after he left the office that day.
Oh, God . . . this is so hard. We both
had disposable cell phones. David
insisted.
And the camels back is broken. I
leap to my feet.
You had burner phones? Just so you
could screw around on me? Fuck David,
buy him cigars, and use burner phones so
I wouldnt find out? I pause to take a
breath, and my chest hurts. Lying to me
through your teeth then, and since
Davids arrest. Forcing me to look at
your lying face, hold down my anger,
and make sure we all arent brought
down by this goddamned disaster.
My pulse feels white-hot, deafening
in my ears. The rage Ive held back for
so long finally overtakes me. I dont
know how long my rant lasts, but when I
finally stop and gather myself, I see the
wine bottle missing from the coffee table
and the TV screen in shards. And a deep
red stain dripping down the wall beneath
it. Dripping like blood. Like the blood
running out of the back of . . .
Oh, Jesus.
I drop to the couch, close my eyes. I
am spent, and I am lost. Its all lost.
The grandfather clock begins to
chime.
When finally I open my eyes, I see
Piper staring at me, studying me. You
knew.
I stare back.
How long? she asks.
I desperately want to escape this
moment. But there will be no flying
away this time. I lock eyes with Piper,
take a deep breath, and say the words
that I know will seal my fate. Turn Piper
against me forever.
Ive known since she threw it in my
face. Jennifer Yamura. The day I pushed
her down the stairs.
Pipers eyes widen. Her lips part. I
see confusion, then terror. She blinks
once, twice.
It was the second call, I begin.
The one Jennifer made to me when
Angie was at lunch. She wanted to move
up our meeting. But not for earlier the
next day. She said she had to see me
right away. She asked me to come to her
house.
I see the terrifying image of myself at
Jennifers back door on Anna Groszeks
videotape, forty-three minutes before
David Hansons own appearance on
camera. The image that forced my
decision to make David pay the
blackmail, no matter what . . . to protect
my own sorry ass.
Piper is gaping at me now, and I
realize that I have stopped talking. I
inhale and continue recounting, step by
step, the horror of that day.
She let me in the back door, led me
to the living room, and told me that she
didnt trust the TV stations lawyers to
protect her. She said she wanted
someone whose loyalty wasnt divided.
I told her that if she retained me, I would
work only for her. We talked some more,
and she said there was someone
involved in the investigation we could
blackmail. Someone important. But
before she could tell me who it was, I
stopped her. I said I wasnt blackmailing
anyone. We argued the point, and she
became extremely angry. Started
shouting at me. Berating me, calling me a
coward. I shouted back, and thats when
she told me about you and David. She
said youd been having an affair for
months, and the whole world would find
out about it if I didnt back her blackmail
plan. She said I most certainly would
blackmail whoever she told me to, that
Id get her out of testifying in front of the
grand jury and beat back any contempt
charges. These werent requests, I
emphasize. These were orders.
I dont Piper begins, but I raise a
hand to stop her.
 I told her I was done listening to her.
I said I couldnt have a professional
relationship with a client who said
terrible things about my wife, who spoke
to me like that. I headed for the back
door, but she cornered me in the
hallway, where the doorway to the
basement is, and she threatened me
again.
Piper questions me with her eyes,
pleading silently for a reason that will
justify what she knows is coming. And
she finds one. Tommy.
I nod. Jennifer said if I didnt get her
out of her jam, shed tell the grand jury
all about Tommy. That he was part of the
drug ring. That it was he who first tipped
her to the grand-jury investigation.
 But Piper begins.
She and Tommy had been lovers.
Piper puts a hand to her mouth.
I told her to leave Tommy out of it.
But she kept screaming that shed have
him sent back to prison. I lost it. I
pushed her. She fell through the curtain
of glass beads.
This isnt exactly how it happened.
Ive changed the order of things, for
Pipers sake. Yamura did corner me in
the hallway, but it was after shed made
her threats against Tommy, not before.
She sneered at me, bared her teeth, and
told me about Piper and David. She told
me how David loved to brag about his
other conquests. She told me some of the
things David had shared with her about
his encounters with Piper. Personal and
private things. My stomach turns even
now at the memory.
David and I laughed about her,
actually, Jennifer had said. For all her
good looks and that bitching little body,
your wifes a bit of a prude. Or she was
at first. But she came around. Then
Jennifer stepped into me, said, One of
the things David taught her was to cradle
his balls, and with that she cupped her
own hand around my testicles, like this,
when she sucked
Thats when I snapped. I shouted
something and, as I told Piper, shoved
Yamura backward, shoved her hard, and
watched her disappear through the
curtain of glass beads.
 I heard her hit the steps, I tell Piper.
I pushed the beads aside and saw her
lying there, on her back, halfway down
the stairs. This is why I was surprised
when I first saw the crime-scene photos
showing her all the way at the bottom,
with her head on the concrete block.
Her eyes were closed. She wasnt
moving. Blood was spilling out of her
head onto the steps. I took a couple steps
down, called her name. She didnt
respond. I waited, but she didnt move. I
was certain she was dead.
So, when I saw you on the street
. . . , says Piper.
I was coming from her house.
Piper winces. You had your leather
satchel. It looked full, but I didnt think
anything of it.
I had her computer and jewelry. The
money from her wallet.
To make it look like a robbery.
What Im expecting from Piper is
revulsion and a stream of questions.
How could I push a young woman down
the stairs? What kind of man am I that I
could callously strategize even as I
stood over what I believed was her dead
body? How could I calmly traipse
around her house, stealing things to
cover my tracks by making it look like a
robbery? And how could I contain the
knowledge of Pipers affair with David
and with it, the rageall this time?
These rhetorical questions will be the
mallet Piper uses to shatter the already-
cracked crystal that is our marriage. And
then shell call Devlin Walker.
But the questions do not come.
From the beginning, you invited me
in, she says, so quietly at first that I can
barely hear her. You had me come to
your trials. You practiced your openings
and closings on me, ran ideas past me.
You brought me to the victory dinners
with your colleagues, the political
events. Even when we socialized with
the other DAs and the cops, we went as
a couple. From the start, it was always
us. Mick and Piper. I jumped onto your
bandwagon, and it became our
bandwagon. And on top of that, what we
were doing was important. We were
fighting the good fight, sending the bad
guys away, making the streets safer. And
when Gabby came along and we had a
child to protect, that made our crusade
even more important to me.
And then, out of the blue, you said
you wanted to leave the prosecutors
office and jump to the other side. I
couldnt believe it when you told me.
But I thought, okay, I can do that with
you. Wed fight for guys like Tommy.
Good people whod done some bad
things. People who just needed a second
chance. And then you joined up with Lou
Mastardi, she says of the partner whod
formed the firm Susan and I inherited.
And that was the end of itof all of it
for us. It was the end of us. Our circle
of friends excluded us. You worked even
longer hours than before. When you got
home, you were too tired to talk about
your cases, let alone ask me what I
thought. I went to your trials at first, but
it was all I could do to get you to
acknowledge me. All my ideas about
fighting for worthy defendants . . . She
shakes her head. I was naive, I know.
Piper pauses. All that was left of our
great mission was your job. Mick and
Piper became Mick. Mick in the office,
Mick in the courtroom, Mick across the
state at some legal seminar. Piper at
home, with Gabby.
Piper stops, looks at me, and I hang
my head. Piper isnt telling me anything
that I hadnt already figured out. Still, to
hear her tell it cuts me to the quick.
 I understand why you went to David.
I really do. And I have no excuses. Any
more than I have for what Id done to
Tommy. But it still hurts to hear it. God,
it hurts. I double over, my arms around
my belly. But Piper has already
delivered the blows.
After a long while, I sit up, look at
Piper. So what now? I ask. Is there a
chance? Can we get back to us, or is it
over?
Piper stands. She leaves the room. I
sit in the semidarkness, in fear. For all I
know, shes packing her bags. Or calling
the police from the kitchen. After what
seems like forever, she comes back. In
her left hand is another bottle of wine, in
her right two fresh glasses. She pours the
wine and hands me a glass.
Us is all Ive ever wanted, Mick.
And us is more imperative now than
ever, because of the most important
mission of all.
I smile through my tears. Gabby.
Piper nods. Gabby.
We raise our classes, clink them, and
drink.
And then, with a self-possession that
amazes me, Piper returns to her
narrative.
When David got to the hotel, he was
in a panic. He told me everything
about Jennifer Yamura, their
arrangement. He said hed gone to the
house on Addison Street to give Jennifer
something or pick something up, I cant
remember. He told me she was dead,
that hed found her on the cellar stairs.
That her blood was everywhere. He said
someone had obviously killed her.
I was furious when I found out I was
just part of a larger harem. But I
believed him, and I didnt want his life
to be ruined for something he didnt do.
So I decided to help him. Piper pauses
here, and I can tell shes thinking about
out how to finish the story. So we
worked out a plan. David agreed to go
back to the house that night, try to clean
it all up. Remove his fingerprints. Clear
out all of his clothes and belongings. He
said there was no way the house could
be traced to him.
I watch Piper closely. Part of her
story doesnt ring true to me. If David
agreed to go back to Yamuras house,
that means the suggestion had to come
from Piper, and I just cant see her
suggesting something like that.
Piper sees me studying her and looks
away.
I take a moment to gather my own
thoughts. Then I continue recounting my
side of the story. How I believed I had
killed Jennifer until I received the
prosecutions evidence and learned that
she hadnt died from the fall down the
stairs. That shed crawled away from the
steps and been found by someone else,
who dragged her back to the stairs and
left her to bleed out.
I tell Piper all about Anna Groszeks
blackmail scheme and explain that the
reason David was caught flying to
Mexico and Grand Cayman was to fetch
the money to pay the blackmail. I didnt
know for sure whether it was David who
dragged Jennifer back to the steps until I
received the blackmailers surveillance
tape and saw him entering the house
after I left. I let this last part hang in the
air.
Piper nods, her gaze distant. There
was blood on his shirtsleeves. He said
he went down the stairs to where she
was lying. He said he tried to rouse her,
and thats how he got the blood on him.
But he was lying, wasnt he? He really
did kill her. And lied to me afterward.
Piper suddenly looks faint. Jesus, what
are we going to do?
I reach over and take her hands.
Were going to finish the plan, I say.
Then I explain who, besides David and
me, appears on the videotape. Last, I tell
Piper the part shell have to play. How
she must lie under oath and testify that
David was with her at the time of the
murder, not afterward.
But why cant I just repeat the lie
David told me when he came to the hotel
about Jennifer being already dead when
he found her? The jury would find him
not guilty.
I shake my head. The jury would
hang him. Think about it. David came to
the hotel room after Yamura was
murdered, admitting that hed just come
from her house. Your testimony would
place him at the scene of the murder
precisely within the time frame fixed by
the medical examiner. And the plan you
two worked out to have him go back to
the house to clean up the crime scene?
That would make you an accessory after
the fact. I pause. Theres only one way
to get us all out of this. One way to make
sure that David isnt convicted so that he
never needs to hire appellate counsel or
tell them about the video.
But so what if he does tell some
other lawyers about the video? You only
showed him the part with him on it. He
has no idea you were in the house before
him, that it was you who pushed Jennifer
down the steps.
 I explain to Piper that David and his
blue-chip appellate team would have no
problem finding out who lived in the
house behind Yamuras, and little
difficulty tracking down Anna Groszek.
Once they found her, theyd pressure her
or, more likely, bribe herto turn
over the original copy of the video.
Once they had it, Id be done for.
Your alibi testimony ends the trial,
I say. Its our only hope.
Piper sits quietly for a moment, then
asks, What if I hadnt caved? What if I
hadnt admitted to you that it was me
who was with David? What would you
have done?
I dont answer. I dont know. Instead,
I stand and pull Piper up with me. I put
my arms around her and hug her as
tightly as I can. I love you, I say
quietly. And Im sorry I left you and
Gabby like I did. Im never going to do
that again. I loosen my grip, kiss Piper
on the lips, and tell her to go upstairs.
Ill be up in a few minutes.
After she leaves, I move to my desk
and mull over what has happened. My
mind fixes on Pipers statement about
perjuring herself. And just that fast, it
hits me. Id been wondering why David
Hanson chose me to be the lawyer to
defend him, given that he was having an
affair with my wife. Thats a lot of
power to give someone who, sooner or
later, will find out he has good reason to
hate you. To justify taking such a risk,
there had to be a reason. And now I get
it. As distraught as David was when he
was first arrested, he realized that Piper
was the key to his salvation. He knew
that Piper would have to lie for him,
have to swear under oath that she was
with him while Jennifer Yamura was
being murdered, not only afterward. And
David knew there was only one person
in the world who could persuade Piper
to perjure herself for him: me.
Thats why David hired me. He had it
all figured out from the get-go. He knew
my endgame long before I puzzled it out
myself. And he also knew that the timing
of the disclosure of Piper as his faux
alibi would be critical. Pipers claim to
have been with David from the time she
checked into the hotel could be
undermined by her receipts from the
cigar store and Lululemon. So, the
disclosure of her as Davids alibi was
something that had to be sprung on the
prosecution at the last moment, during
the trial itself, before Devlin and his
detectives could vet Pipers story.
All of this means that I never had to
hire Alexander Ginsberg to sit with our
team at trial to lament how poorly it was
going for us in order to frighten Piper
into admitting her affair with David, and
scare David and Marcie into putting
pressure on Piper to do so. David had
been planning to strong-arm Piper into
coming clean all along; he was just
waiting for the right time.
 Still, David was taking a monumental
risk. His entire strategy depended on my
being motivated to persuade Piper to
perjure herself for him. Given that I
would be livid over the affair, there
could only be one reason Id ever agree
to suborn perjury to help David: if I was
convinced of his innocence. But why
would David think Id believe he didnt
do it? He was, after all, caught trying to
clean up the murder scene. He ran when
the police came. Then he lied to the
police and to me. Many times. And he
certainly didnt know I was the one who
pushed Jennifer down the stairs, so he
couldnt have held that over my head.
Unless . . . Jesus. Did Jennifer tell him,
injured on the basement floor, that I
pushed her? Had David known all
along? If so, why not threaten me
directly, from the outset? Order me to
have Piper lie to the police, tell them she
was with him at the time of the murder?
Why wait until Piper disclosed the affair
and take the chance Id have her lie for
him on my own? The questions make my
head spin.
I turn my chair around to look out the
big bay window behind me. Its a clear
night. The moon is almost full. The stars
are shining. But I still feel like a blind
man walking in the dark.
After a while, I turn off the desk
lamp, leave the darkened office, and
walk upstairs. I enter Gabbys room, sit
on her bed, and watch her breathe. The
sleep of the innocent. I look to the
nightstand and pick up the book Ive
been reading to her at night. Another
Dr. Seuss book: Oh, the Places Youll
Go!
Congratulations! Today is your day.
Youre off to Great Places! Youre off
and away! I lean in to Gabby and
whisper the words. She stirs a little.
Good; she can hear me at some level.
Maybe shes even dreaming the story as
I read it. Dreaming shes in the story. I
hope so. I read slowly, with the same
emphasis I use when Gabbys awake.
Its not long before I hear paws on the
hardwood floor. Franklin has shown up.
He watches me finish the book, return it
to the nightstand, and gently ruffle
Gabbys hair. He watches me lower my
head as I remember that somewhere in
Center City, in a hotel room, are the
loving parents of another girl, a girl who
will never again go to great places,
never look up and down streets, look
them over with care, her shoes full of
feet.
My God. The tears slide down my
face. I shake my head slowly. I cant
believe it. What I did. What Im doing.
What am I? What have I become?
A shiver runs through me. I wipe my
face, sit up straight, then stand. I look
down at Gabby, tell myself to carry on.
Just get through this! Get it done. For
her sake. For Pipers. For . . .
I dont let myself finish the thought.
 34
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16

Its 5:30 in the morning, and Im at the

office. I reach over my desk, pick up the
phone. I call Devlin Walker. As early as
it is, I know hell be working.
Its Mick, I say, my voice flat. I
need you in my office in twenty
minutes.
Devlin snorts. The time for your
client to plead has come and gone. I was
very clear the last time we spoke. So I
wont be coming to your office today
or any other time. Now, if you dont
mind, I have a lot of work to
Theres a video, I say, interrupting
him. It shows the back of Jennifer
Yamuras house on the day she was
murdered. It shows who went in and out
of the house, just before and after she
was killed. I let the news hang, and
start counting. A thousand one, a
thousand two, a thousand three, a
thousand four . . . But no sound comes
from the other end of the line. So I say,
Twenty minutes. Then I hang up.
At six oclock, the guard rings me,
says theres someone here to see me. I
tell the guard to send him up. Im
standing by the front door to our suite
when I hear the ding as the elevator
doors open. After a minute, Devlin
Walker turns the corner and moves
toward me down the hallway. Even from
a distance, I can see that he hasnt slept a
wink. When Devlin approaches, I hold
open the door for him, then lock it
behind us. Neither of us says a word as I
lead Devlin to my office, nod to one of
the visitors chairs, which Ive faced
toward the TV. As soon as hes seated
and Im behind my desk, I press the
Play button, and the image of
Jennifers back door appears on the
screen.
The clock at the bottom right-hand
corner of the screen reads 11:50 a.m.
when someone appears on the screen:
Devlin Walker, the first of the three men
who visited Jennifer Yamura that day.
He moves around Jennifers car,
approaches the door, and knocks.
Jennifer opens the door and lets him in.
After a few seconds, the screen turns to
fuzz. In another second, the image of
Jennifers backyard reappears. Devlin is
halfway through the back door on his
way out of the house, the motion of the
door opening having triggered the
camera to begin recording again. The
clock reads 12:25 p.m., meaning that
thirty-five minutes have elapsed between
Devlins entering and leaving the house.
Devlin walks away, and a few seconds
later, the camera turns to fuzz, then
black. Thirty-two minutes later, the
camera captured me appearing at
Jennifers back door, but of course I
dont show that part of the video to
Devlin. Nor do I show Devlin the
portions of the video showing David
Hanson arriving thirty minutes after I
left.
The rest of the tape shows what
everyone in the courtroom already
knows happened, I say. It shows
David arriving that night. After about an
hour, he runs out the back door. From
that point on, the tape plays almost
without a break until sunrise, what with
all the patrolmen and CSU guys.
Devlin stares at me, his eyes
betraying a mind in the grip of panic.
I wait a moment, then lean across my
desk. You prick. You murdered that
poor girl. And then you did everything in
your power to frame an innocent man.
No, Devlin says, his voice almost a
whisper.
Heres my guess. You slept with her,
maybe even had a full-blown affair. You
let it slip about the grand-jury
investigation. You tipped off a young
reporter to a story that could make her
career. Somehow, she got on your
computer, copied your files to her
laptop. Thats how she knew so many of
the detailswhich cops had spilled the
beans, and what theyd said. Then one
morning you open the paper and there it
is, laid out in black and whitedetails
that only someone close to the
investigation could know.
Devlins head is down now, his eyes
closed, his jaw clenched. His arms are
wrapped around his chest. My words are
body blows, and he knows theres
nothing he can do to deflect them.
I go on. Now comes the ironic part.
As the DA running the grand jury, youre
professionally obligated to subpoena
Yamura to appear and testify, disclose
her sourceyouand testify to what
else she knows. But her doing so would
ruin you. So youre caught between a
rock and a hard place. You issue the
subpoena, and you know that, sooner or
later, shes going to have to show up or
face a contempt charge. So you go to her
house and beg her to lie under oath and
not reveal you as her source. She laughs
in your face, tells you that she wont go
to prison to protect you. Its all too much
for you, so you throw her down the
stairs. When you see she isnt dead, that
shes able to crawl off the steps, you
follow her down, carry her back to the
stairs to bleed out and die. Then you
search the house for the laptop but cant
find it. So you take a few minutes, try to
clear your head, figure out what to do.
Thats when you come up with the idea
of taking the money out of her wallet and
her jewelry and phone, to make it look
like a burglary gone bad. I have to hand
it to you, Devlin, you were always good
on your feet.
Devlin shakes his head. No, no, no,
he moans.
You left the house without the
laptop, but you knew you had to get it
somehow. With Jennifer dead, the copies
of your files on her computer were the
only things that could link you to her
story. Thats why you pressed me again
and again for the laptop. Why you
stressed that my turning it over was a
condition of Davids getting a plea deal.
Its also why you warned me not to open
the files on the computer.
Devlin puts up his hands to stop me.
What youre saying doesnt make sense.
Why would I think David Hanson had
the computer, if I, not he, was the one
who killed Jennifer?
Because during your affair, Jennifer
told you that David owned the house.
You figured there was a hiding place in
the house, maybe a secret safe that the
police didnt find, and thats where
Jennifer had put the laptop. You decided
that David opened the safe and took it
after you murdered Yamura.
Devlin closes his eyes.
Tell me, Devlin, was she crying like
the medical examiner said? Did she beg
you for her life as she crawled away
like you insinuated to the jury? Is that
how you came up with that question
because you saw it play out in real life?
I didnt kill her.
How did you hold yourself together
all these months? Did you lock it away
in some remote dungeon in your brain?
Did the memory of it all fade over time
until it all seemed like just a bad dream?
They could write whole psychology
books on you, man.
Now its Devlins turn to lean across
the desk. I did not kill that woman! I
did not!
I return Devlins stare, my eyes cold
with accusation and contempt. You
were going to take everything from
David. His reputation, his lifes work.
His freedom. Well, now Im going to
take everything from you. This morning,
when the judge asks me to call my first
witness, guess who Im going to name?
You. And when Bill Henry calls us both
up to sidebar, Im going to tell him I
have a videotape that shows you were
the one who killed Jennifer Yamura. And
just like that, your career will be over.
Your marriage will be over. You will be
over. I sit back and wait.
Devlin shrinks in his seat. After a
minute, he lays it all out. It was months
ago, and only a few times, he starts.
She came on to me at some political
function when my wife was out of town.
She was so good-looking, and I was
long past sober. So I followed her back
from the hotel, the Warwick, to her
house. An hour of drunken, sloppy sex,
then I was out of there and swearing Id
never go back. But the next day, I
couldnt stop thinking about her. And the
day after that and the day after that. I
called her one morning, asked if she
wanted to meet me for a cup of coffee. I
was thinking Starbucks. But she
suggested I come to her place, said shed
make a fresh pot. That was the second
time. After we were done, lying in bed,
we got to talking. I asked her about her
family, where she came from, what her
goals were. She asked me what I was
working on. And like an idiot, I told her.
The grand jury, the police drug ring. I
made her promise not to share it with
anyone, and she did.
The laptop, I say.
A bitter smile forms on Devlins lips.
A couple of times when I went to
Jennifers house, I brought my own
laptop with me. Id shower before I
went home. I think she took that time to
copy my files. I was supposed to put a
password on the computer, but I never
got around to it. Devlin shakes his
head. And then, like you said, one day I
woke up, went outside my house to get
my paper, and there it was in black and
whitethe story about the grand jury
and the crooked cops. I knew I was
fucked. I made a big show of
subpoenaing Jennifer to appear before
the grand jury to disclose her sources.
But privately I was pleading with her to
fight the subpoena. Thats why I went to
her house the day she was killed. I told
her not to testify. And I begged her not to
implicate me.
And she admitted what shed done?
Copied the files from your laptop?
 She didnt even apologize for it.
And thats when you threw her down
the stairs, I say.
No. Thats not what happened. I
cooled down, and we talked. I
convinced her that she needed to hire her
own lawyer. Someone other than the TV
stations hacks. Here, he pauses, looks
at me, and says, I gave her the same
name Id given her before. Your name,
he says bitterly, and the irony slaps me
in the face. The next time I saw her was
after the murder, at the crime scene, that
night.
I sit back in my chair. I understand the
timing now. Jennifer called me at my
office, having earlier been given my
name by Devlin. Devlin then went to her
house and pressured her again, and she
called me a second time, telling me she
needed to see me right away. So I went
to her house. Later, when Devlin got the
call that Jennifer had been killed, he
knew the CSU guys would be at her
house.
So, I continue, you got a call from
one of your contacts in the police
department that David had been busted
at Jennifers house, and you hightailed it
over to Addison Street. You barged in
and made sure to pollute the crime
scene, including the basement, with your
hair and skin and fingerprintsbecause
you knew the CSU team was going to
find all that stuff anyway. Youd been in
the house during your affair. Hell, earlier
that day.
Devlin says nothing.
I wonder whether it was in the back
of your mind to kill her even before she
opened the door for you.
Goddamn it! Why arent you
listening to me? Devlins voice is thick
with exasperation. I did not kill her! I
thought we could find a way to make it
all work out.
With my help?
Youre the best in the city, Mick. The
slickest. And, quite frankly, the most
ruthless. If there was anyone who could
get her out of having to testify, I knew it
would be you.
I think back to Jennifer Yamura telling
me there was someone we could
blackmailmeaning Devlin. But that
doesnt make sense. Devlin didnt want
Jennifer to testify any more than she did,
so blackmailing him wouldnt have
accomplished anything more than Devlin
would have readily done on his own if
he couldve managed it. As for Devlins
hope that I could figure out some way to
rescue Yamura from the grand jury, it
was a pipe dream. No lawyer was going
to beat Devlins subpoena. Devlin and
Jennifer were both so desperate, it
clouded their judgment.
Devlin laughs bitterly, shakes his
head. Christ, what a fuckup. What a
massive fuckup. One mistake. One
fucking mistake, and everything down
the drain.
 The words are a punch to the gut. It
takes all my effort not to double over
from the same sense of desperation thats
driving Devlin.
I never should have let her lure me
in, never given her the chance to trick
me.
I laugh. Is that how you see it? She
was the clever fox, and you were her
witless prey?
Devlin steels himself, looks at me. I
think she knew about the grand jury
before I told her.
How could that be?
Your brother. Hes friends with
Lawrence Washington. Lawrence
probably told Tommy about his
testimony. Or maybe, and here Devlin
leans toward me, Tommy was a part of
it all. Lawrence brought him into the
scheme, and Tommy gave Jennifer the
initial heads-up, when he was taking his
turn with her.
You have a rich imagination.
How is Tommy doing these days? I
havent seen him in court. Doesnt he
usually sit in? I glower at Devlin, who
glares back. Whatever happens to me,
to David Hanson, Tommys going down,
and I think you know it.
The only person going down is you.
And its going to happen today. Im
going to stop you from sending an
innocent man to prison to cover for your
own crime, and Im going to destroy you
in the process.
 Devlins shoulders slump, every
ounce of bravado draining from his
body. Theres no way out for him, and he
knows it. I sit back in my chair for a long
moment and enjoy it. Then I say the
word that saves his life.
Or . . .
For the next twenty minutes, Devlin
sits perfectly still, staring out the
window behind me as I lay it out for
him. When Im done, he fixes on me, his
face incredulous. You expect me to let a
murderer walk out of that courtroom,
scot-free?
But it was always your plan to walk
out of that courtroom. Now Davidthe
man you set up to take the fall for you
is going to walk out, too.
 Listen to me: I did not
Stop it! Just stop it. No more trying
to bullshit me into thinking youre
innocent. Im giving you one chance to
avoid the catastrophe youve brought on
yourself. Take it or leave it. Either way,
David Hansons going to walk.
Devlin exhales, nods. He lifts himself
out of his seat, as deflated as Ive ever
seen him, as spent as I feel myself. When
he gets to the door, I call after him.
Were not done, I say.
He turns, opens his arms: What else?
One more thing, I say. Tommy. He
gets a pass. You leave him alone. And
you make sure everyone else does, too.
Including Tredesco.
Devlin glares at me. Youre a prick,
McFarland. You know that? And hes
gone.

Vaughn gets in an hour later. I hear him

greet Susan fifteen minutes after that. I
give Susan a chance to situate herself in
her office, then I go in and close the
door. Im going to need your help this
morning.
Sure, anything.
I need you to question our first
witness.
This morning? Is he already
prepped? Do you have a list of questions
for me?
The witness is fully prepped. Then
I tell Susan who the witness will be and
why I need her to be the questioning
attorney. When Im done, she stares at
me, her jaw hanging. Jesus Christ.
Half an hour later, just before 9:30,
Susan and I enter the courtroom. Susan
heads for counsel table while I have the
guard let me through the side door
leading to Davids holding cell. I walk
down the narrow hallway, the guard in
front of me. He goes to open the door,
and I say, Dont bother. Just give us
some room. The guard walks away, and
I look through the bars at David, who
stands up, wondering how this is going
to play out. He knows with my first
words.
Piper told me everything, I say.
You piece of shit.
Mick, Im sorry. We never
There will be an accounting, David.
As soon as this is over, there will be an
accounting. With that, I turn and leave.
Minutes later, the jury is in the box,
the judge on the bench, the spectators in
their seats, everyone waiting for the
show to begin. Judge Henry nods toward
me and asks if the defense is ready to
present our case.
When Susan rises instead of me,
expressions of surprise echo from
behind us, everyone wondering what
shes doing there. Her voice strong and
clear, Susan declares, The defense
calls Piper McFarland.
And the courtroom is instantly abuzz.
I look across to the prosecution table,
where Devlin is already on his feet.
Objection, Devlin says. This
witness wasnt named on the defendants
witness list.
Hes sticking to the script. Good. He
has to fight it on the record, at least at
first.
Sidebar, says the judge, and Susan
and I, Devlin and Christina, make our
way toward the bench. Whats going on
here, Mr. McFarland? the judge asks
me. Is this witness related to you? What
are you offering her for?
The witness is my co-counsels
wife, Your Honor, Susan interjects.
Judge Henry looks at me. Your
wife?
 Yes, Susan answers. The defense
is presenting her as our alibi witness.
She was with the defendant at the time of
the murder.
The court reporter raises her
eyebrows.
I object, Devlin repeats. The time
has long past for the defense to identify
alibi witnesses.
Your Honor, Susan chimes in,
Mr. McFarland only learned last night
that the witness was an alibi witness,
and
Devlin interrupts and speaks over
Susan. The rules require the defendant
to disclose any alibi witnesses at the
time they file their omnibus motion.
Your Honor, Susan cuts in, the
defendant was prepared to go to prison
for a crime he did not commit to protect
the reputation of his alibi witness. But
she decided she could not let that
happen. Exceptional circumstances are
present here.
I demand an offer of proof, Devlin
says, following my script. I want to
hear what this witness is going to say
before shes allowed to go anywhere
near the jury.
Bill Henry leans back in his chair. He
gets it now. And despite his decades as a
trial attorney and judge, seeing and
hearing it all, he cant quite keep the
Holy shit from his face. Very well,
Mr. Walker, youll get your offer of
proof. I want counsel, the defendant, and
the witness in my chambers in ten
minutes. You, too, he says to the court
reporter, whose vigorous nodding makes
clear that wild horses couldnt keep her
away.
Ten minutes later, we are all
assembled in chambers. The judge is
behind his desk, the court reporter sits
next to the desk, to the judges right.
Four chairs sit in front of the desk, and
seated in them, left to right, are Piper,
Susan, Devlin, and Christina. Behind the
four chairs is a long sofa. I am on the far
left side of the sofa; David is on the
right. Davids face, like mine, is set in
stone.
Susan begins. Your Honor, the
witness is prepared to testify that on the
day of the murder
No, says the judge. Youre not
going to summarize her testimony. Shes
going to testify here, under oath, before
me. Im going to hear what she has to say
and how she says it before I decide
whether to let her take the stand.
This is what I expectedand hoped
for. I told Susan not to protest this if the
judge required it. If he did not, Devlin
was to demand it and Susan was to
agree.
The court reporter administers the
oath to Piper, who says I do in a
barely audible voice. The judge tells her
to keep her voice up, and Piper says,
Yes, Your Honor. Im sorry. Susan
questions Piper briefly about her
background, establishing that she is,
indeed, my wife. Then Susan gets down
to business.
Please tell the court where you were
on Thursday, May thirty-first, of this
year, from 11:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.
Piper glances from Susan to the
judge. I was in room 703 of the
Rittenhouse Hotel.
Were you alone?
No.
Who was with you?
I watch Piper lower her head and
hear her say . . . nothing.
Jesus Christshes changed her
mind.
I stop breathing. But then Piper lifts
her head, looks at the judge, and says,
David Hanson was with me.
The whole time? asks Susan.
He arrived right at noon. But after
that, yes, he was with me the whole
time.
When he arrived, did he have any
blood on him? Did he appear disheveled
in any way?
Blood? No. He was dressed in his
suit. He looked normal. Buttoned and
tucked.
When did you first tell defense
counsel about all this?
I told my husband last night.
Why didnt you come forward
sooner?
Piper looks away from Susan, fixes
her gaze on some invisible spot on the
wall behind the judge. Of course,
everyone in the room knows why she
didnt fess up earlier. Tell her husband
that she was sleeping with his old friend.
I just couldnt face . . . Pipers
voice trails off.
Then why are you coming forward
now?
Piper looks squarely at the judge.
Because David Hanson didnt kill that
woman. I cant let an innocent man go to
jail. No matter what, I just couldnt.
Susan waits for the words to sink in,
then says, Thank you. Your Honor,
nothing further.
Devlin jumps right in with his cross.
Mrs. McFarland, what were you and
Mr. Hanson doing all this time, in room
703 of the Rittenhouse Hotel?
Piper stiffens. We were . . . we were
having relations.
You mean you were having sex.
Susan is about to answer when Bill
Henry interjects, The court already
understands what the witness meant. The
follow-up remark is stricken.
Devlin pauses, then asks a question I
prepped him for. Do you have any
proof you were at the Rittenhouse Hotel
that day?
Yes, Piper says, and then she pulls
out the hotel receipt showing the charge
for the room. David gave me money to
pay the bill in cash so there wouldnt be
a credit-card record. But the hotel still
gave me a receipt when I checked out.
 Devlin studies the bill and asks Piper
to state what it is for the record. Then he
turns to the judge and says, Your Honor,
I dont want to be indelicate here, but I
think Im entitled to some more
background. I need it to weigh what the
witness is now telling us. And, quite
frankly, I think the court is entitled to that
as well.
I agree, says the judge. Then he
looks at Piper and says, in a kindly
voice, In requesting the court to let you
testify at this late date, defense counsel
is asking quite a lot. Normally, an alibi
witness is identified well in advance of
trial, giving the prosecution the chance
to investigate the veracity of the alibi.
Here, unless I were willing to suspend
trial for some period to allow the
prosecution to check out what youre
sayingwhich is not something I want
to dothe prosecution will not have had
that chance. So Im going to allow
Mr. Walker an opportunity to question
you, at length, about the circumstances
surrounding your alleged meeting with
the defendant on the day of the murder.
Do you understand?
Piper nods. Yes.
Does defense counsel have any
objection to this? Judge Henry asks
Susan, who says she does not. Very
well, Mr. Walker. The witness is yours.
Devlin spends the next twenty minutes
excavating the details of Pipers affair
with David Hanson. When it began and
how. How often they met and where.
How they arranged their meetings so
their spouses wouldnt find out about
them. Its an agonizing interchange. It
feels as though Devlin is taking a long
sword and slowly pushing it through my
heart, inch by inch. From time to time, he
glances back at me. I can tell hes
enjoying my torment. And then comes the
final plunge of the blade.
One more question,
Mrs. McFarland. And here I cannot help
but be indelicate. To corroborate that
you were in fact engaging in relations,
can you describe any sort of mark or
scar on Mr. Hansons body that wouldnt
be visible unless he were disrobed?
Piper swallows hard. Her shoulders
slouch. She averts her eyes from Devlin,
then closes them. He has a mole. On his
upper thigh, the left one.
Fury fills me as pictures of my wife
and David Hanson flash across the
movie screen inside my mind. It takes
every ounce of my strength not to attack
David right there in chambers, batter his
face into pulp. Instead, I close my own
eyes, take deep breaths. After what
seems like an hour, but which cant have
been more than a few seconds, the judge
asks Susan if the client will
acknowledge that this is the case. But
Devlin has a better idea.
Your Honor, my adversary
interjects, the Commonwealth needs
more.
 It takes a moment for Bill Henry to
figure out what Devlin is asking, but
when he does, he sighs and nods. He
asks Devlin if hes done with the
witness, and if theres any need for Piper
to remain while the defendant disrobes.
Devlin glances at me, and I glare at
him. The prosecution has no more
questions for the witness at this time. We
have no objection to her leaving
chambers during the examination.
I stand as Piper leaves the chair.
With the courts permission, I say, Id
like to be allowed to leave for this part
as well. Judge Henry grants me leave,
and I accompany Piper out of chambers.
I escort her past the secretarial well and
out the door into the hallway. We walk
quietly to the long bench by the windows
at the end of the hall and sit. Piper leans
into me. I wrap my arms around her and
promise her, again, that this is all going
to turn out okay.
After a few minutes, one of the
judges law clerks walks into the
hallway and summons me back to
chambers. Judge Henry looks at me,
concern and pity in his eyes. The
inspection corroborated the witnesss
testimony, he says. Then he turns to
Devlin. Does the Commonwealth still
object to the defenses presenting the
witness?
Devlin looks at the judge, then leans
forward in his seat, places his elbows
on the armrests, steeples his pointer
fingers, and puts them to his lips. He
closes his eyes for a long minute. Then
he opens them again, leans back in his
seat. The Commonwealth is satisfied
that the witness is telling the truth.
Then, as though he were thinking out
loud, Devlin continues. If the earliest
the murder occurred was noon, as the
pathologist testified, and if the defendant
left his office at eleven fifty, it would be
impossible for him to have traveled to
Addison Street, even by cab, pushed the
victim down the stairs, dragged her back
to the stairs, cleaned off all the blood
that wouldve gotten onto him, and made
it to the hotel by noon. Devlin pauses,
sighs, and says the words that stun
everyone presentexcept me. Were
ready to drop the charges.
What? Christina Wesley almost
falls out of her chair.
Excuse me? the judge says.
Susan jerks her head back to where
Im sitting on the couch. Her eyes are
filled with disbelief.
Your Honor, Devlin begins, his
voice low and calm, in all my years as
a prosecutor, I have never once
knowingly sent a man to prison whom I
believed was not guilty. Ive never even
brought charges against someone where I
wasnt personally convinced of their
guilt.
Thats not the standard for bringing a
defendant to trial, Mr. Walker, Judge
Henry says. If theres sufficient
evidence to support the charges, a
prosecutor may properly bring those
charges, regardless of his personal
beliefs. Thats the standard.
Devlin lifts his head. Respectfully,
Your Honor, I hold myself to a higher
standard.
I cant help but smile. Devlins being
clever. He knows this transcript will be
made public, just as he knows hes going
to have to justify his heretical decision
to drop the charges against David. And
there is only one acceptable
justification: actual innocence. Devlin
has to take the position that he believes
David Hanson is not the one who
murdered Jennifer Yamura. He is doing
so now, and is painting himself as a
prosecutor who takes the moral high
ground.
Would you like some time to talk
with your boss? the judge asks Devlin.
This is my call, Your Honor.
Theres no way Devlin is going to
call the DA. The district attorney would
yank Devlin from the case, appoint
Christina Wesley first chair, and tell her
to press vigorously for a conviction.
I dont need to tell you that if you
drop the charges, double jeopardy will
attach, and there can be no retrial for
homicide, the judge says.
Devlin doesnt answer, just stares at
the judge. Beside him, Christina Wesley
sits frozen in her chair.
And what about the lesser charges?
Bill Henry asks. Tampering with
evidence, interfering with a crime scene,
and so forth?
Devlin considers this. The
Commonwealth will drop those as
well.

Back in the courtroom, David, Susan,

and I take our seats at the defense table.
After a good five minutes, Devlin and
Christina enter the courtroom. They
were arguing outside the judges
chambers when we left them. The judge
takes the bench, and Holleran opens the
door for the jurors. They walk fast, with
purpose, their heads up, eyes bright. The
rest of the courtroom is electrified as
well. By now everyone knows that the
defenses first witness is going to be the
wife of the lead defense attorney. Sparks
of one type or another are going to fly.
Bill Henry looks out at the courtroom,
scans the faces of the parties, their
counsel, the reporters, the onlookers, his
staff, and finally, the jury. He smiles at
them, and they smile back. Then, without
preamble, he says, The charges against
the defendant are dropped.
A collective Huh? reverberates in
the courtroom.
Ladies and gentlemen, the judge
continues, looking at the bewildered
jurors, I thank you for your service. You
have been most patient and most
attentive. The parties, the
Commonwealth, and I personally, are
grateful to you. Then he looks to
defense table and says, Mr. Hanson,
you are free to go. Court is adjourned.
A loud bang of the gavel, and Bill
Henry is gone from the bench. And the
courtroom falls into mayhem.
I turn away from David to avoid
shaking his hand. I nod to Vaughn and
Alex Ginsberg, signaling for them to
follow me out of the courtroom. The
press is on me even before I get to the
door. I swat them away. No comment.
No comment. As I pass the rows of
spectators, I cannot help but glance at
Jennifer Yamuras parents and brother.
Her mother is weeping openly, her father
trying in vain to console her. Brian
Yamura glares at me. And one row
behind them, I see John Tredesco, his
face etched with rage.
I bolt from the courtroom, the floor,
and the courthouse. I sprint back to the
firm. After a while, Vaughn, Susan, and
Alexander Ginsberg arrive and set
themselves up in the conference room.
By now Susan will have told Ginsberg
and Vaughn what went down in Judge
Henrys chambers. I hear them talking as
I approach the conference-room door.
They all quiet down when I walk into the
room. Susan is the first to say what
theyre all thinking: Devlin dropping
the charges? What the hell was that?
I shake my head, take a seat at the
table. Devlin obviously believed
Pipers testimony.
Vaughn opens his mouth to say
something but decides better of it.
Anything to be said about Piper is going
to have to come from me.
The important thing, I continue, is
that its over. The client has been
completely exonerated and will get on
with his life. Chalk up another win for
the good guys. I force a smile, then ask
Vaughn and Susan to give me a few
minutes with Alexander Ginsberg. As
soon as I close the door, the legendary
lawyer is on me.
You knew, he says. You knew it
was going to go down just like it did.
I hoped. I didnt know.
 Ginsberg studies me like hes studied
a thousand witnesses on the stand. Give
me the backstory, he says. Tell me why
you wanted to make sure this case never
reached a verdict. Why you hired me to
sit in court every day just so I could tell
your client that his defense was a sinking
ship unless he came forward with the
alibi.
I dont answer.
Ginsberg studies me some more, then
says, What I also dont get is why
Walker dismissed the charges once Piper
claimed to be his alibi. Devlin could
have crucified her on the stand. Slapped
her with her obvious bias as your wife
and painted the two of you as
conspirators in perjury.
 Again, I dont answer.
Ginsberg nods his head slowly. He
reaches out and shakes my hand, pats me
on the shoulder. Tell me one thing. Was
justice done here today?
The question evokes in my mind the
Yamura family sitting, broken, in the
courtroom.
Not even close.
 35
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16,
CONTINUED

After Ginsberg leaves, I walk to my

office and close the door. No calls, I
tell Angie on the phone. No visitors. I
flop into my chair, feeling physically and
mentally spent. And morally bankrupt. I
betrayed every professional principle I
hold dear. I misled my legal team every
step of the way. I helped blackmail my
own client, even engineered his being
tossed into prison. I perpetrated a fraud
on the court. I worked the system to deal
a dreadful injustice to the family of a
murdered young woman. And then
theres what I did to my own family:
deceiving Tommy and Piper and
subjecting Piper to crushing pressure
until she broke down and allowed
herself to be manipulated into perjury.
I tell myself I did it all to save my
family. But theres no nobility in my
deeds. Because everything I did, I also
did to save myself from the
consequences of my own terrible act. An
act that splits my gut every time I think
about it. An act for which I will never
forgive myself.
 I look at the beautifully framed
admission certificate to the Pennsylvania
Supreme Court hanging on the wall.
How do I face another jury, another
judge, after what Ive done? What right
do I have to fight for another mans
freedom?
I sit numbly for a long time. My eyes
closing, opening, searching for
something to help me go on.
And then I spot the envelope from the
Pennsylvania Supreme Court. I lurch
forward, grab the envelope, rip it open,
and read. Its the decision in the Justin
Bauer case. I skip to the end, and tears
begin to trickle down my face. The court
is giving Justin a second chance. I take a
deep breath and lift the phone.
 Celine, its me. Good news. Great
news.
 36
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER
24; MONDAY,
NOVEMBER 26

Piper, Gabby, and I are wolfing down a

big meal at Godmothers, Gabbys
favorite restaurant in Cape May. Weve
been here a week, and I dont think any
of us have ever had a lovelier time at the
shore. Piper and I took Gabby on long
morning walks on the beach, which was
deserted except for the three of us. We
collected shells, chased the gulls, and
watched the sandpipers dart back and
forth at the waters edge. We rode bikes
along the back roads, visited the pigs at
Beach Plum Farm. At nightevery night
once Gabby was asleep, Piper and I
made love. It was tender and real. The
coupling of two people whod been
swept away from each other by an angry
tide, then, miraculously, washed ashore
a century later on a deserted island. At
least thats how it feels to me.
But, of course, civilization is only a
headline away. The hotel carries the
Jersey Shore edition of the Inquirer, so I
couldnt escape the aftermath of the
Hanson case. The initial press reports
damned and derided me. Half the
accounts accused me of using my own
wife in a scheme to dupe the judge and
prosecutor. The other half painted me the
fool. Depending on which reporter you
followed, I was either a cuckold or the
most calculating son of a bitch ever to
practice law, and Piper was either an
unfaithful wife or a perjurer.
It was all too much for Thatcher Gray.
The day after Piper and I left for the
beach, Sir Thatcher ordered his wife,
Helen, to pack their bags, and they took
a late-night flight to London. Helen
called to tell us that Thatcher was
nursing his rage at their hotel bar.
The reportage on Devlin has
followed an interesting arc. Early
articles skewered him for letting a
millionaire off the hook. But Devlin
went on the offensive, making
appearances on all the local TV stations.
He had two themes. The first: the moral
high road. He recognized that his
decision was politically unpopular.
But, he was quoted as saying, I
cannot claim to apply the laws evenly
regardless of social status and then send
an innocent man to prison simply
because hes wealthy. And that led into
Devlins second theme: David Hanson
was innocent. Devlin espoused the view
that Jennifer Yamura was likely
murdered during a burglary gone bad,
the killer having gained entry to her
house through an unlocked door. It must
have galled Devlin to declare David
innocent, convinced as he is of Davids
guilt. But its the road he has to take.
Devlins new spin was manna from
heaven for David Hanson. It sent the
message that David hadnt gone free due
to high-priced legal trickery but because
he deserved it. Like Devlin, David
Hanson was making the TV news circuit.
The Inquirer quoted an interview on
Channel Sixs Sunday-morning news
magazine. Anchorman Jim asked David
whether he intended to bring a wrongful-
prosecution case. David said no. The
city is financially strapped as it is. And
my mission isnt to takeits to bring
money to the citizens and taxpayers of
this town by cementing the business
relationships that will pull jobs into our
region.
Now David is well placed to
complete those Asian deals, having been
grudgingly reinstated by Edwin at
Hanson World Industries and promoted
to president of HWI-Asia.

Its Monday, and Im back at the office

now, refreshed and renewed by my time
at the shore with Piper and Gabby,
hoping Im strong enough to face the
ordeal ahead: the accounting I
promised David Hanson. Hes been
waiting in the conference room for thirty
minutes. I had Angie park him there
because I cant abide his presence in my
personal office. Ive had him wait so
long because . . . well, because I want to
make him wait.
When finally I enter the conference
room and close the door, David looks up
at me. I can see his mind spinning, trying
to figure out how to play his part so that
the scene between us resolves to his
advantage. Should he be contrite, beg my
forgiveness? Or go on the offensive, use
whatever ammunition Piper had given
him to justify her betrayal? He elects to
open with a question.
Why did Devlin fold like he did?
You heard him. He believed Piper
was telling the truth.
He could have cross-examined her
in open court. Let the jury decide.
I shrug. He was convinced youre
innocent.
David studies me for a minute.
Marcie thinks theres more to it.
I shrug. Occams razor. Sometimes
the simplest explanation is the truth. I
hold Davids gaze as I lift a water bottle
from the silver tray on the table, open it,
take a sip. So, why did you do it?
David looks away, but only for a
second. It began by chance. Piper and I
ran into each other at the mall and . . .
I put my hand up to stop him. Not
that. I know why you did that. Youre a
self-serving narcissist who cant keep
your dick in your pants. No, what I want
to know, now that you can never be
retried for it, is why you murdered
Jennifer Yamura.
David stares at me. I can feel the heat
rising in him. He leans ever so slightly
into the table, toward me. I didnt kill
her, Mick.
Did Jennifer really threaten to tell
Marcie, I ask, like her brother said? I
know Tredesco put him up to saying that
on the stand. But did it really happen?
Did you see the scandal of it playing out
in the newspapers? Were you terrified
Marcie would leave you, take the boys
and a bunch of your money? Or was it
that youd never get to the top at HWI?
I did not kill Jennifer, David
repeats, a little more strain in his voice.
And heres another question. What
were you doing between 11:50, when
you left your office, and 1:45, when you
showed up at Jennifers house?
Piper asked me to come to the hotel
in the afternoon. It was a nice day,
though, and I wanted to leave the office
earlier. I knew the arts festival was
happening on Rittenhouse Square, so I
decided to take it in. I did just that. And
in answer to your next question, no,
theres no one who can vouch for me
being there.
I snort. I dont buy it. My guess is
you paid a visit to another special
friend. Jennifer and Piper werent
enough for you. You had a third one in
the mix. You really are a piece of
Enough, David interrupts. What
am I here for? Because its sure as hell
not to take shit from you.
You have quite a temper, I say. I
never picked up on it when we were in
law school. Then again, everything was
going so swimmingly for you back then.
You were surrounded by friends
admirers, really. Kevin Kratz got you on
the Law Review, then abdicated the
editor-in-chief position to you. You were
getting laid left and right. You were the
star of the show.
You have no idea of the pressures I
was under, then or since. The
expectations placed on me . . . Davids
voice trails off, and we sit in silence for
a moment. Just send me the bill. Ill pay
it as soon as I open the envelope.
 I pin him with my stare. Yes, you
will pay. I also told you thered be an
accounting between us. I pull the DVD
from my desk drawer, set it on the table.
David knows where Im headed.
You dont dare leak that, he says, or
Piper will go to prison for perjury.
I smile. Oh, I doubt that. She has a
good attorney. He could probably get her
off. He found a way to keep you out of
jail, and youre a murderer.
Fuck you. David sighs. Whats
your endgame here?
I just want you to pay your legal bill.
And to show a little gratitude for the
exceptional job that Ive done, I think a
five-million-dollar bonus would do it.
Thats highway robbery!
 No, thats blackmail. You should
recognize it; weve both been down this
road before.
This would be the perfect time for me
to disclose to David that Anna Groszek
had demanded only $3 million, and not
the $4 million Id made David come up
with. But I hold my tongue.
David glares, perhaps seeing this side
of me for the first time.
Theres one thing I just dont get, I
say. You hired me because you knew
that Piper would have to lie for you on
the stand, and you figured I was the only
person who could get her to do that. But
what made you so sure Id be confident
enough in your innocence to persuade
her?
 Davids face lights up, and he laughs
a bitter, full-hearted laugh. Your
confidence in my innocence? Oh, Mick,
you really are a crack-up. I wasnt
counting on your believing I didnt kill
Jennifer. The truth is that I didnt know
what Id be able to hook you with once
you found out about Piper and me. But
youre right that I figured youd be the
only person who could get Piper to
perjure herself. So I hired you with the
hope that somewhere down the line, Id
find something to use as leverage against
you.
I hold my breath. If the dying Jennifer
Yamura told David I pushed her down
the steps, this is where hell spring it.
He shrugs. I never did, but you
convinced Piper to perjure herself
anyway. And Im torn as to why. The
idealistic part of me says that, even
knowing what I did with Piper, you
helped me because, deep inside, you
know I didnt kill Jennifer. But my gut
says that you offered up your wife
because thats what it took to carry the
day. When Marcie told me she ordered
you to do whatever it would take to win,
I laughed and told her she neednt have
wasted her breath. She might as well
have been telling a fish it had to swim.
Im about to launch into David when I
hear a knock at the door. It opens, and
Susan peeks her head in. Everything
okay in here?
Peachy, I answer. Davids just
told me that hes so happy with the job
we did that hes paying us a five-
million-dollar bonus!
Susans jaw drops. She looks from
me to David, back to me. Holy shit is
all she can get out.
Before I can say anything else, David
stands. He walks away but pauses and
turns in the doorway.
You know what, Mick? Im happy to
pay you the five million. Teaching your
wife how to fuck was worth every
penny. And with that, he brushes past
Susan, leaving her to witness the
humiliation in my burning face.
An hour later, I still feel raw as I speed
up the 476 toward Jim Thorpeand
Tommy. I take deep breaths, steel myself.
Ive resolved to fix things. The chasm
between us, opened by Tommys
euthanizing our father, has to be closed.
I turn onto the dirt road leading to his
trailer and see Tommy open the door and
come outside to meet me. He knew I was
coming; I called before leaving the city. I
park the car, walk to Tommy, shake his
hand. Its chilly this November afternoon
in Jim Thorpe, and Tommy is wearing a
long-sleeved red-flannel shirt, the tail
hanging outside his worn jeans. His
black-leather bikers boots crunch the
gravel beneath his feet. I feel out of
place in my business suit and wingtips.
 I guess Im supposed to say
congratulations, Tommy says.
I shrug. Why dont you just get us
some beer? I say, then I sit at the picnic
table while he goes inside to fetch a
couple of Buds.
When he returns, Tommy sits across
the table, hands me a bottle. So, he
says, Devlin rolled over. He quit the
fight. Now hes going around telling
everyone he believes David is innocent.
Howd you manage that?
I look at Tommy, throw back my beer.
Devlin was on the tape.
I tell Tommy how I confronted
Devlin, strong-armed him into making
our deal. Tommy works to keep his face
neutral as I tell the story, but I see
judgment in his eyes. He thinks I
wronged Devlin Walker. I feel the urge
to defend myself, but I didnt come here
to talk about Devlin Walker or David
Hanson.
Theres something I need to say to
you.
My brother puts down his beer, puts
his hands on the table, and waits. I take a
deep breath and continue.
You did the right thing, I say. For
Dad. Ending his pain. It was the right
thing to do, I repeat. Noble, and
loving. And you paid a terrible price for
it. A price you never should have had to
pay, not by yourself. I should have been
there with you. And not just to help Dad
at the end, but for all the time leading up
to it. I pause, lock eyes with my
brother, make sure he hears me. Tommy,
Im sorry. For everything. For
abandoning you and Dad. For not doing
more to help you later.
What could?
I should have come after you.
Brought you home. Not let you wander
the country drinking yourself to death,
trying to get thrown into prison. If I had,
you would have told me what youd
done, instead of carrying it around inside
you all those years. I cant imagine what
it was like for you, living with that kind
of secret. I shake my head, look down.
When again I look at Tommy, he has
an odd look on his face. I cant read it,
but I find it unsettling.
 Tommy takes a breath, then says,
You cant blame yourself for my taking
off. There was nothing you couldve
done about that. But youre right about
keeping what Id done inside. That was
the worst part of it, after the guilt. Here,
he pauses, looks hard at me. You keep a
secret like that, it eats away at you.
Some things, no matter how bad they are
because of how bad they arejust
need to be talked about.
Tommy takes a swig of his beer, his
eyes locked on me the whole time. I
begin to feel a queasiness in my
stomach. Tommys clearly fishing for
something.
Hows Lawrence doing? I ask,
nodding toward Tommys trailer.
 Not good. In and out. More out these
past couple weeks. But hes not in my
trailer. Hes over there. Tommy nods
toward another trailer sitting across the
gravel road from his own. Guy who
owns it is a friend of mine. Hes in
Florida, so hes letting me use it for
Lawrence. I keep tabs on him with a
baby monitor. Can you believe that? He
shakes his head. You want to see him?
Tommy is out of his seat and walking
toward the trailer before I can answer. I
stand and follow.
Lawrence Washington is lying in a
bed in the back room of the trailer. The
bed is just about the width of the room
and is pushed up against the window that
takes up most of the far wall. There are
windows by the head and foot of the bed
as well, so Lawrence lies awash in light.
The trailer stinksof sweat, urine, stale
breath, and Lawrences dying.
Up until last week, Tommy says, I
could get him to the toilet, most times.
These past few days havent been so
good. He smiles wanly. I never raised
kids, but I bet Ive seen more diapers
than you.
Jesus, I say, my voice barely above
a whisper.
Hey, Lawrence, Tommy announces.
Look whos here to visit you.
Lawrence slowly opens his eyes. It
takes some time for it to register with
him who I am. When it does, he smiles.
Hey, Lawrence says weakly. He lifts
his right hand a few inches off his
stomach.
I take it. Sorry it took so long for me
to come up again, I say. Better late
than never, right?
Lawrence smiles. Pretty soon, he
says, Ill be both. The late, and never.
Then he coughs, his face contorted in
pain.
You want some morphine? Tommy
asks, but Lawrence waves him off.
You have morphine?
A good buddy of mine is a hospice
worker. I called him, told him about
Lawrence. He drove me up some drugs
on the sly, for when it gets bad.
Tommy pulls up a plastic chair for me
to sit on next to Lawrences bed while
Tommy fixes something for Lawrence to
eat. I sit quietly with Lawrence for a few
minutes. Then Lawrence looks over at
me. So, I hear you beat the pants off
Devlin. Hes a wily one. But you were
always clever, too. I liked working with
you. Lawrence coughs again.
You sure you dont want some
medicine? I ask as Tommy comes back
carrying a plastic tray with a plate of
what appears to be baby food and a
juice box.
I stand to make room for Tommy, and
Lawrence answers me. No. Im used to
the pain by now, except when it gets real
bad. Mostly, though, its just lotsa
rockin and rollin. I can take it.
My vision blurs, then clears as I stare
at Lawrence Washington in disbelief. It
feels as if someones just whacked me
with a two-by-four. Lotsa rockin and
rollin. The same words the caller used
when he phoned 911 to report the
imaginary fight at 1792 Addison. I
repeat the words out loud. Lotsa rockin
and rollin.
I back away from the bed, and Tommy
turns to look at me. Hes puzzled at first.
But after a second, he gets it. Mick. I
hear my brother behind me, but Im
already out the door.
Mick! Tommy shouts after me as I
make my way across the gravel road. I
stop and turn toward him.
It was Lawrence who made that
call, I say. And you who put him up to
it.
Lets sit down, Tommy says.
You knew David was in the house!
You wanted the police to catch him!
Mick! Please. Sit down.
I hesitate but follow my brother to the
picnic table. Its getting on to dusk now.
The sun is behind the trees, and its
starting to get colder. Tommy takes a
deep breath. They called me from the
hotel. Piper and David. Piper told me
everything, about the affair and about
David finding Jennifer Yamura dead on
the stairs. They were both in a panic.
It was your idea, I say. To have
David go back and clean up. Tommy
nods. But you had to know there was no
way he could clean all the . . . My
voice trails off as all the pieces click
into place. From start to finish, Tommy
had set David up.
Why?
It was a betrayal! Tommy
practically shouts the words. Piper
with that prick.
I stare at my brother. Its clear that
Pipers betrayal hit him hard. But her
betrayal of whom?
So you told them that David needed
to go back and clean up the place.
Tommy nods. Lawrence was ready
to make the call as soon as I signaled
him. I waited for David to get deep into
the cleanup job, then I rang Lawrence
and he made the 911 call on a burner.
After Davids arrest, I caught you
and Piper fighting on our back patio.
Thats what it was about, wasnt it?
Tommy nods. Piper figured out that I
was the one whod fingered David. It
drove a wedge between us.
Why did she decide to call you in
the first place?
Tommy smiles, but theres bitterness
in his eyes. When I got out of prison,
Piper was my biggest fan. Shed been
writing to me while I was inside,
encouraging me, and she kept it up once I
was released. She told me I was no
worse than anyone else, that Id just had
some bad breaks. But when this thing
with David happened and she needed
advice on how to deal with a crime, I
was the one she called. For all her talk,
Piper still sees me as a criminal.
My mouth starts to open, but I close
it. Pipers call must have hurt Tommy.
Tommy looks away, and we sit in
silence for a long while. I chew on what
Tommy has told me. I get that he hated
David Hanson because of his affair with
Piper. But there has to be more. Tommy
wouldnt frame an innocent man just
because he was pissed.
That day, Tommy says, when I was
in your office and Jennifer called, I
realized she was in a bad spot with the
grand jury and was looking for a way
out. I figured she might try to save
herself by selling me out as her source.
So I decided to go see her. I was mad
and a little scared, and I didnt want to
show up half-cocked and say something
stupid, make things worse. So I decided
to stop for something to eat, to cool off
and think things through. I went to a
sandwich shop on Walnut Street for a
while, then walked down Seventeenth,
took a right, toward her house. When I
got to Waverly, I looked down the alley.
Tommys words hit me like a
sledgehammer. You saw me leaving, I
say, almost a whisper.
You were walking down the alley,
away from me. I started to call out after
you, but something stopped me. I waited
until you turned the corner on Eighteenth.
Then I kept walking down Seventeenth
and turned onto Addison. Jennifer said
she made everyonewhich I figured
meant the men she was screwing behind
Hansons backcome through the back
door. But I told her no way. I wasnt
sneaking through anybodys backyard.
So I always came to the front, and I did
that day, too. I rang the bell and I
knocked. But there was no answer. So I
opened the door; it was unlocked.
Tommy and I sit in silence until the
full horror of what must have happened
floods my head. Id thought David
Hanson was the only one whod entered
the house after I left. But he wasnt.
Tommy got there before David, but he
didnt appear on Anna Groszeks video.
Oh, God, Tommy, I say as my heart
breaks one more time for my brother.
For one more terrible thing that hell
have to carry around inside him. You
went into the house and found Jennifer.
Tommy looks at me but says nothing.
But she wasnt dead.
Tommy shivers. She was lying on the
steps. Her eyes were closed. Then she
opened them and looked up at me. She
was confused at first. Then it was like
she figured out where she was and what
had happened, and she got a scared look
in her eyes. She kind of lifted her back,
let herself slide down the steps. At the
bottom, she rolled over and started to
crawl away. Left a trail of blood. I stood
there trying to wrap my head around the
thought that youyouhad pushed her
down the steps.
I thought Id killed her, I whisper.
 Tommy considers this. I went down
and tried to help her up. But she didnt
want me near her. She was half out of it.
More than half. She thought I was you.
Started mumbling how she was going to
nail you for attacking her. Going to get
your brothermetoo. Tell the cops
all about me and the drug ring. Tommy
stops talking, clearly struggling with the
memory of what happened next.
She fought a little when I carried her
back to the steps, laid her down. But
then she became very still. After a bit,
she talked some moremumbled more
than talked. Then she laughed. And then
tears started flowing, like she was
crying, but she didnt make a sound. She
was slipping away. I knelt next to her,
held her hand. I told her it was going to
be okay. Toward the end, she opened her
eyes, looked up at me. But she wasnt
really seeing me. It was like when a
baby looks up at you. Its eyes cant
focus. She mumbled something again. I
think it was her brothers nameBrian.
Then her body went limp, like a balloon
with the air drained out of it. I sat with
her for a while more. Then I panicked.
Started cleaning up the basement, as
though I could wipe away all that blood.
But I knew there was no way to make it
look like an accident, make the police
think shed just fallen and stayed on the
steps. I did my best to wipe my prints off
everything in the basement, including
her. I took off all my clothes so as not to
track blood, went upstairs, got one of
Hansons shirts, a pair of his pants, a
pair of his sneakers. Put them on, put my
own stuff and the rags Id used to try to
clean up the blood in a trash bag, wiped
off everything Id touched, and left.
Tears are streaming down Tommys
face now. His lip is quivering.
You have to let it go, I say.
Tommys eyes snap to mine. Just like
that, huh?
Im good at pushing down my
emotions. Id done exactly what Id
accused Devlin of. Id locked this
terrible thing in my private dungeon,
hidden it from myself. Im telling Tommy
to do the same. But Tommy isnt me. He
cant hide from his demons.
 So, what then? I ask. You were
going to keep this to yourself? Even
though you just told me that keeping
something like this hidden is the worst
part?
You were going to keep it to
yourself, Tommy says.
And I realize, now, why, after so
many years, Tommy suddenly chose to
open up to me about what hed done to
our father. It wasnt to unburden himself.
Tommy was giving me an opening to
clear my own conscience, to confess
what Id done to Jennifer Yamura.
Tommy and I sit in silence for a long
moment. She would have bled out, I
say. Whether youd shown up or not.
Her cell phone was in her shorts. If I
hadnt gone in, she mightve
remembered it, called for help. She
might have, but I made sure that didnt
happen.
She would have destroyed us both,
I say.
But Im the one who killed her.
No, Tommy. You didnt kill Jennifer.
We both did.
 37
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER
27

I awake the next morning inside

Tommys trailer; Im curled up on the
worn leather couch. My head is
pounding from the bottle of bourbon
Tommy and I polished off last night. The
light is painfully bright to my eyes. I
force myself to stand and walk outside.
The late-November morning air is cold
and thick and carries the smoky scent of
burning wood. I inhale deeply.
Tommy exits Lawrence Washingtons
trailer, and we stand facing each other
for a while.
I meant what I said last night. About
Dad. You did the right thing.
Tommy stares at me. And Jennifer?
Was that the right thing?
She would have wrecked our family,
Tommy. Not just you and me, but Piper
and Gabby, too.
Tommy looks away. My words arent
enough, wont ever be enough. And how
could they be? Words are just words. I
wasnt there with Tommy, helping him to
tend our father. Nor was I with him when
he cleaned up the awful mess Id made
with Jennifer Yamura. Once again, I
wasnt there for Tommy when he needed
me most.
Will you be able to come for
Christmas? I ask.
Tommy shrugs, tilts his head toward
Lawrences trailer.
Stupid question, I say.
Tommy and I shake hands, and I get
into the car. He watches as I drive off. I
wave, but he doesnt wave back. Im
abandoning him again, and the chasm
between us will widen with every mile I
drive down the pike.

Im twenty minutes away when it finally

dawns on me. You idiot, I say.
Neanderthal.
I call Piper on my cell phone and tell
her what Im going to do. Theres a long
pause at the other end of the line, then,
Yes, she says. Yes. Thats exactly
what you need to do.
And then, for us, itll be Paris and
London, I say. You and me and Gabby.
Well stop in New York first so we can
take Gabby to see The Lion King. Piper
and I talk for a few more minutes, then I
hang up.
At the next exit, I turn the car around
and head north, back toward Jim Thorpe.
Thats where Ill stay until its over.
Whether it takes a week or a month, Ill
help Tommy care for Lawrence
Washington. Ill hold Lawrences hand
and talk to him. Ill feed Lawrence,
medicate him, turn him so he doesnt get
bedsores. Ill be there until Lawrence
passes in the trailer, or until the pain gets
to be so bad that we have to take him to
a hospital. Ill stand beside my brother
every step of the way, as I should have
done once before. And in doing so, I
will begin the process of mending the
wound I opened so long ago.
As for what Tommy and I did to
Jennifer Yamura, there will never be
peace for either of us. Her killing will
be a burden we carry for the rest of our
lives. But we will carry it together.
ACKNOWLEDGMEN

This book is the result of the generous

effort and contributions of many great
people. First and foremost is my wife,
Lisa, who believed in me and the book
even when I had my doubts. Her
reassurances kept me moving forward,
and her editorial suggestions were
inspired. I also want to thank my early
readers, Kelly McFarland, Alan
Sandman, and Jill and Neil Reiff.
For teaching me how the industry
works, and pointing me to Ed Stackler, I
extend my special thanks to my fellow
attorney and author Anderson Harp.
Thanks, too, to Bill Lashner, whose own
books I have thoroughly enjoyed over
the years and who schooled me in the
many benefits of publishing with
Amazon.
I extend huge thanks to Ed Stackler,
my editor, who laboriously chiseled
away until he found the statue inside the
marble slab. Ed, your artistry was
transformative.
To Cynthia Manson, my agent, I give
my heartfelt gratitude for your critical
structural suggestions, for getting the
book into the hands of Nancee Taylor-
Adams, who did a really wonderful job
of fine-tuning the book, and for getting
the book to Gracie Doyle.
And, finally, to Gracie Doyle herself.
Your suggestions about the protagonist
were exactly what the story needed.
Thank you for that, and for taking a
chance on an old trial dog like me.
ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

Photo Todd Rothstein

William L. Myers, Jr. was born into a
proud, working-class family in
Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He attended
college at Clarion University and law
school at the University of Pennsylvania.
For the past thirty years, he has fought
for his clients in state and federal
courtrooms up and down the East Coast
and has had the honor of arguing before
the United States Supreme Court. Bill
lives with his wife, Lisa, in the western
suburbs of Philadelphia.