If a person has less than a week to live, say just over six days, it would seem apt that there should be some augury or omen to presage that event.   Even if the portent was recognized only later for what it was, it would be somehow reassuring, almost as though the passing of a life was somehow within God’s plan rather than a random, chance occurrence brought on by a fellow mortal.   But after Breidel had gone, no one could remember noticing anything that foretold his demise.   

To most people in the United States it was merely another in the series of Fridays, nineteen of which had thus far preceded it that year.   On the East Coast, where thunderheads hovered in the humid air, most folk were turning their attention to dinner.   In the Pacific Time Zone two hours remained before the warm, dry breezes would usher in the weekend.   At this precise moment, three people, thousands of miles apart, were thinking of Keith Breidel, and if the events that were to happen over the following months could be said to have a common beginning, this time would have to be their inception.   If any of the three had made a different decision than they did, a man now dead might yet be alive.   

A foretoken would establish that their actions were predestined.   But there was none.   

Jim Spizziri pulled up the bandana that hung loosely around his neck and wiped the sweat off his face, then, unclipping the waist-strap, swung the backpack off his shoulders.   The small, flat area was big enough for his tent, and the Tonto Creek, tumbling into a small pool not thirty feet away would provide him with both drinking water and a chance to wash the Arizona dust off his body.   He should have been burning up the asphalt toward Savannah where Keith lived, he knew, but he needed some solitude to think about what he planned to do.   There had been a time in his life when consequences never entered his mind, a time when he would have thoughtlessly winged it, but two stints in the Marines and, more recently, a deployment to Iraq had changed him.   Now he was equipped with new skills and, most importantly, discipline.   His moves would require careful planning if he were to have any chance of succeeding.   

Almost two hundred feet above the Savannah River, with the setting sun blazing through the support cables throwing their black shadows diagonally across the road, Edward Hillman followed the sluggish traffic across the Talmadge Bridge as he headed for his home in South Carolina.   He leaned across and turned the talk radio show off leaving his brain free of distraction to think about Keith Breidel.   Dr. goddam Breidel.   Not much else had occupied his mind since he had heard that the man was to become the new Scientific Director at Zarcopharma.   His father, the one who had imparted the news, had passed no other comment on the appointment, but Edward knew that the Old Man had coveted the position for himself, and as the two had eaten their lunch in the company cafeteria, Edward had noticed that the face that had, in his youth, seemed so commanding, so authoritative, so knowledgeable, now appeared dispirited and a little bewildered.   Over twenty-five years of his life his father had given to Zarco.   He had been with them almost from the get-go, helping them build up the laboratories from scratch in the 70s, supervising the production of the initial lines of drugs, working long hours until the company could afford to hire more researchers.   Twenty-five years, and what had he got for it?   Not even a dinner with the brass.   A cake in the boardroom, a short speech from the chairman that was so bland that it did not even warrant some of the other staff members present looking up from their Blackberries.   No presentation, just an email with a URL that linked him to a website where he could choose his anniversary gift.   Edward’s mother had thought he should choose the clock, but his father had decided on some golf clubs.   Edward wondered whether he had thought his old ones too shabby to be caddied around with the other executives when he became Scientific Director as had seemed his destiny.    And now he had been passed over.   And, to add insult to injury, passed over for that kid, Keith Breidel.    Breidel at 37 had fairly rocketed up the promotion ladder since coming to Zarco.   Breidel with his diffidence and little-town ways, his clean-shaven face and brushy haircut that made him look 25.   But behind the façade he was something else altogether.   He was a shrewd adversary, carefully studying every move he made.   But this time he would not succeed.   The Old Man’s disappointment would be short lived.   He, Edward, would make sure of that.   He knew Keith Breidel, the two had sparred before and Breidel had come out second.   Now it was time to go in for the kill.   

Josh Kelzer stood at the window of his second-floor office and watched Keith Breidel walk down the flagstoned terrace to the parking lot.   "My God, do you know how hot you are?"   Josh muttered to himself as his idol, tie pulled down and shirt top buttons open, tantalizingly framing the tanned chest, slid into the cream Mitsubishi Spyder convertible and retracted the top.   With his hormones running amok, Josh watched, unmoving, as the car peeled out of the parking lot and, with a burst of acceleration, disappeared up the street into the Savannah evening.   With a sigh he returned to his desk and sat down in front of his computer.   It was hopeless, he reflected.   Keith barely knew Josh existed outside the walls of Zarcopharma.   "Maybe things would go more smoothly if you came out," the voice of his annoyingly-always-right alter ego whispered.   "Maybe he doesn’t even know you’re gay."   Yeah, he probably didn’t.   But coming out was easier said than done.   Several times in his life he had set deadlines for declaring his independence:  when he would get to college; when he would complete his first year; when he would graduate; once he had his own apartment.   But each target had come and gone with Josh remaining crouched in the closet, having only occasional one night stands with guys and desultory dates with girls.   Until recently Josh had never spoken to Keith, hardly noticed him in fact since the computer folk had few opportunities to mingle with the researchers.   But about a month before, Dr. Breidel had diffidently entered Josh’s office with a computer problem and, in his polite manner, had wondered whether Josh could help him.   Within two minutes of checking the symptoms, Josh was pretty sure he had the problem nailed, but he felt a strange attraction to this man, the white shirt with its crisp creases, the muted scent of deodorant, aftershave and the hair-gel which held the dark blond mane in carefully arranged disorder beguiled him, and he stretched out the diagnostic process to fifteen minutes to enjoy the company — ersatz though it was.   Only as Breidel, Keith as he had insisted Josh call him, had shaken Josh’s hand before leaving, had the computer tech noticed the tie.   What at first he had taken to be small dots on the dark blue background, he now saw were the small equals signs of the HRC.   Could it be?   Could the man, this paragon, be, like Josh himself, gay?   Too bewildered to speak, he had watched Breidel, his fixed PC in hand, walk out the door.   From that day Josh had engineered a few meetings at lunch times in the cafeteria, yet the two had proved to be so painfully shy when out of their professional environments, that the meals had been devoured in a gallimaufry of the mundane, neither crossing the line to what was most important in their lives.   Josh looked unseeingly at the computer screen, waiting for his alter ego to once again taunt him, yet now, almost as annoyingly, it remained silent.    "OK!"   Josh responded to the unspoken question.   "One week."   He picked up a red marker and crossed to the Sierra Club calendar that hung on his wall.   "By next Friday I will have asked Keith to go out with me."   And with that he drew a circle around the number 27.   

Living with Chris is pretty much the same as riding with him on his motorcycle.   There are long stretches of quiet, serene travel, with me nestled gently and contentedly against his leather-clad back.   Suddenly, and without warning, his left foot does a rapid down-shift, his right hand snaps the throttle open, changing the engine note to a howl, the speedometer needle arcs toward the triple digit zone, and my mind, numbed with fright, tries to disregard the fact that we are on the wrong side of the road facing oncoming traffic.   Just when the adrenaline has knotted the muscles in my feet and hands, and pulled my blood protectively into the center of my abdomen, we are past the slower moving car, and with a quick right-left lean of his body, Chris has tucked the bike neatly back into our lane, rolled off the throttle, and delivered a quick slap to my leg as though to say, ‘Why were you worried?   Don’t you trust me?’

And as I said, living with him tends to follow this pattern, too.   

I had been out of town for a week.   The previous Friday I had boarded a northbound Delta jet by myself, and headed back to the University of Chicago, my Alma Mater, for what promised to be a convivial get together of a select few: the people with whom I had spent countless late night hours studying, and innumerable daylight hours in class arguing cases.   On the Tuesday morning following, with a vicious hangover, I had headed East from the Windy City to New York for the first of a series of meetings with the legal department of one of the big corporations who wanted to open up a distribution center in Savannah.   

Originally Chris had planned to come up to Chicago with me for the long weekend, but we had eventually realized that my schedule would not give us all that much time together, and there were some chores that Chris wanted to work on around the house — some shutters damaged over the winter, some boards split on the walkway from deck to beach.   The normal annual repair work.   

The week passed as work days do, and the following Friday afternoon I was in another Delta jet, contemplating my imminent death as the left wing dropped closer and closer to the vertical above the I-95 / I-16 interchange while the airplane’s nose traversed the horizon to line up with the distant runway.   I gripped the armrest with bloodless knuckles, wondering as I did so whether the turn was the result of a brash pilot who had little regard for his own life, or whether the plane was under the control of some of Chris’s software.   A turn that forced one’s butt deep into the seat cushion was just the kind of thing my lover would think exciting, I reflected, ruefully wondering how much of my body would remain for him to bury.   

Yet the Fates smiled on us, and a short while later I was striding up the jetway, the sweat having dried off my forehead, and my heart rate dropping below the hundred beats per minute level.   Stepping from the warm tunnel into the air-conditioned cool of the terminal, I spotted Chris standing a few feet beyond the check-in desk, his black jeans clinging to his legs, a rust-red short-sleeve shirt hanging open over a long-sleeve yellow T.   He had got himself a new haircut while I had been away.   Gone was the faux hawk that he had sported for a month, and now the brown hair was spiky with a flare above his brow.    He pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning and sauntered towards me, grinning.   "You can walk as casually as you like," he said as he came up to me, "but I know that ten minutes ago you were wetting yourself and shaking when the guy pulled that hard bank onto final."   

"How’d you know he did that?"   I asked incredulously as I put my arm around him.   "Was that your software?"   

"Naah.   I was watching from the parking lot, and that was an all-American pilot letting the barnstorming genes in his blood have a little fun," the dork answered with a smile.   

"Nice hair style, by the way," I said.   

"Uh, thanks."   He gave me a shy grin and ran his fingers lightly across his scalp.   He put his hands on my shoulders.   "I like what I see, too," he said, and pulling me towards him, planted his lips firmly on mine.   

The afternoon was sunny and warm, and Chris steered his Jeep deftly amongst the eighteen-wheelers headed down to Florida as I recounted the details of my trip.   By the time I had run out of stuff to tell him, we were already off the highway and headed for the bridge that would take us onto Kirkhall Island.   As we drove between the high girders above the choppy waters I paused and asked him how his week had been.    He rattled off some generalities of his job, but otherwise implied that the week had been nothing more than same-old-same-old.   I had braced myself for a saga of computer-related anecdotes and a byte-by-byte tour of his latest debugging effort, but this unusually brief and non-committal answer surprised me, and I got the sense that something had happened that he was not quite ready to discuss.   

"C’mon.   There had to have been something at least a tad unusual in your life," I chided.   

"Nope, not really.   Just worked on some code problems," he replied looking straight ahead, the sea breezes spilling over the windshild ruffling the blond tips of his hair.   

"Your company isn’t getting bought out, is it?"   I asked, knowing that that was one of Chris’s fears.   

"Not that I know of."   

"So what did you do last weekend?   You said you’d gone into Savannah."   

"Yeah.   I rode up on Saturday.   Ran into the old Mrs. Seaburn and her grandson down by the river and had lunch with them."   

Had I imagined it, or had there been the briefest of hiatuses after the word Saturday?   Was he picking and choosing what he wanted to say?   

"How is the old bird?"   

"As sharp as ever.   Not much goes on that she doesn’t have an opinion on — including the way I dress," he gave a short laugh.   

"What’s her grandson up to these days?"   

"He works with computers somewhere in town."   

"’S he cute?"   

"He’s got a girlfriend."   

I knew my partner.   "But he got your hormones running, I bet!"   

"For fuck sake, Mike, what is this?   The Spanish Inquisition?"   Chris burst out.   "Am I asking you if you took your Law School friends to bed?"   

Wow!   Obviously I’d hit a nerve, I reflected, relapsing into silence while pondering what was going on.   

‘Well at least the house hasn’t burned down,’ I thought as we turned onto the road that led up to it.   We drove the last quarter mile in silence.   Chris cut the motor and pulled on the handbrake, while I unbuckled my seat belt and began to swivel my butt around to swing my legs out, but he reached out and grabbed my shoulder.   

"Mike!"   

"Yeah," I said turning toward him.   An anxious muscle in his jaw caused his cheek to pulse.   

"I’m sorry I snapped at you."   

"That’s OK.   What’s going on?"   

He hesitated and looked at the dashboard for a second or two.   "You know what we agreed on?"   He asked, looking up at me.   "The no secrets thing?"   

"Uh-huh."   I replied, not sure where this was going.   Had my guy got himself a lay with a cute hetero while I was away?   There is a commonly held belief that God makes no mistakes.   But, if so, how did Chris get loaded up with twice the maximum number of hormones specified in the Divine Construction Manual for Humans/Male/Gay?   

"I got involved in a computer problem over the weekend," it came out quickly, and he paused to explain, "It was Mrs. Seaburn’s grandson who had the problem."   

Oh yeah, Chris had found himself a cute boy.   "I leave you alone for a bare week," I laughed, but he raised his hands gently to stop me.   

"I figured out what his computer problem was.   I found the data he had lost," he paused and looked at the gear shift.   "But I found out more…and then one thing led to another, and I ended up doing something that is very definitely illegal."   

"Oh, God, Chris.   You didn’t kill someone did you?"   I asked, my chest tightening in alarm.   

His face lost its seriousness briefly and he laughed.   "No, Mike.   Not that bad."   

"So what did you do?"   I asked as my chest relaxed a little.   

"Mike, that’s what I’m trying to get across I cannot tell you what I did."   There was the briefest of pauses.    "But I didn’t two-time you.   It’s just…if I told you all that happened you would have to turn me in."   

"Not necessarily.   I’m your attorney."   

"No, Mike, I know this.   If I were to tell you what I know and what I did, you would have to say something, to the police or to another lawyer, and then my ass would be grass.   And a couple of other guys, too, who were just looking after their own asses, too."   His eyes held mine, steady and unflinching.    He was not afraid.   

I reflected on what he had told me, and said, "Chris, the police are extremely thorough.   This is not some speeding fine you’re trying not to pay.   If you’ve got yourself involved in some kind of crime, they will figure it out eventually," I spoke, trying to keep my personal anxieties in check with the measured tones of advice.   Very sound advice.   

"That’s a chance I guess I have to take then," he answered, with more determination than casualness.   "’K.    Let’s go inside."   

Holy cow!   He really believed I would drop this.   And, my mind noted, there had been no denial of the ‘crime’ aspect.   "Chris," I said jumping down from the Jeep and moving to the back where he was already pulling my suitcase from behind the rear seat.   "Chris, you need to tell me more, buddy.   I need to know what you have done."   

"No you don’t," he said with a smile as he handed my PC bag to me.   "Trust me, Mike, you do not want to know."   

Putting aside years of honing my rhetorical skills, and forgetting that hounding Chris did little but make him more obstinate, I persisted.   Taking hold of his shoulder, I pulled him around to face me.   "Have you ever been in a jail?   Have you any fuckin’ idea what it is like?   What you see on TV, the fingerprinting and photographing is nothing.   Everything you have is taken from you:  wallet, money, your necklace, even your handkerchief or tissues.   Think you can understand what a body search is like?   Having your balls lifted up, your ass pulled apart to make sure you have nothing hidden there?   Do you know what a jail smells like?   What the noise level is like?   What it’s like to have some ass-hole who has little education and even less training, constantly yelling at you, telling you what to do?   

"I don’t know what you’ve done, but you need to know what is ahead for you.   You think you are smart.    It doesn’t matter.   The police have time on their side.   Sooner or later, just by whittling away, they will figure out what has happened and who did it."   

I had expected a strong reaction to this and I braced as his hand moved toward me, but Chris merely smiled.   His hand rubbed against my jaw.   "You’re sweet.   You really care, don’t you?   Don’t worry — I’ll be fine, Mike.   Don’t sweat this one."   And with that he pulled the handle on my roller-board up and, towing it behind him, walked to the door.   

Dinner and the rest of the evening passed in an uneasy truce, the conversation becoming stilted as we stepped clear of any discussion of the past seven days.   The unknown is so often more frightening than the truth, and my anxiety grew as I conjured up ever more dire predicaments for Chris to have got himself into.    Eventually, with dampened mood I declared I was going upstairs.   We cleaned our teeth in silence, Chris turned out the light, opened the blinds and followed me into bed.   He rolled onto his side, and I felt his arm come over me tweaking my nip as he nuzzled his mouth into my neck and his loin pushed against me.   

It had been a long week, my brain was frazzled and conscious thought was shutting down.   My patience snapped.   "You really think you want to make love to someone you can’t trust?"   Now that, without doubt, has to go down as the dumbest thing I have ever said, and, even as I heard the words coming out of my mouth, I was muttering a silent ‘Oh Shit!’

I felt the bed jolt as Chris drew in his legs and, before I could comprehend what was happening, he was astride my abdomen, leaning forward, his hands pinning my arms to the sheet.   

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"   he demanded.   

"Chris…" I started.   

"I did not have to tell you anything about what I did this week.   I could have just kept my mouth shut and none of this crap would be happening.   But I thought I owed you some kind of explanation.   Shit, did that idea ever backfire — I never thought you’d go so fucking overboard."   He shoved my arms against the mattress.   "And don’t you ever use sex as a weapon against me.   Ever.   If you’re too tired to fuck, that’s fine.   Just say so.   But our sex is not something we give as a reward or hold back in punishment.   We do not use it to manipulate each other."   

His face was black in silhouette, but against the backdrop of the night sky through the window, I saw his shoulders heaving up and down as he gulped in air.   "Chris, I’m sorry.   That wasn’t what I meant to say."   

He said nothing.   His hands gripped my arms just above the elbows with a strength I had not realized he possessed.   

"No," I finally had to admit when the silence had stretched on, "I did mean it."   I swallowed, smarting from his accusation.   "But, Chris, I wasn’t trying to bargain with sex.   Honest.   Yes, I know it was a real stupid thing to say, though.   What I was wanting to say was that I’m scared for you…and I should have said I’m hurting that you won’t let me help you."   

He released my arms and sat back, his weight supported on his haunches on either side of my pelvis.    "Mike," he said with a patient sigh, "it’s not that I won’t let you help me.   Telling you is going to either get you chucked out of your profession if you don’t tell anyone, or me thrown in jail if you do.   All I’m doing, in the only way I know how, is taking the fifth, Mike."   Even without being able to see, I knew his eyes would be earnest and desperately asking for my understanding.   "Mike, I’m not dumb.   I know I’ve broken some goddam law.   I know if I get caught the shit will really hit the fan.   But what I’ve done isn’t some sordid thing that I’m trying to hide."   He drew a finger across my chest.   "Mike, you would be proud of me if you knew."   There was a silence.   "Mike, you have to trust me.   What I did just had to be done.   There was no other way."   

"Chris, I do trust you."   It wasn’t what I wanted to say.   I wanted to tell him, ‘I’m panicking, Chris.   I feel friggin’ terrified about what can happen to you, and I feel like I’m the only person who can help you, but you won’t reach up and grab my hand.’   But uttering those words would just have started the whole fight over again.   Mulling over what he had said, I flexed my arms.   I remember, somewhere in the back of my mind, being slightly surprised I could still move them after his grip.   I took a deep breath.   "OK.   We do it your way."   

His hands massaged my chest for a long while.   "Cool," he said softly at last.   

We stayed like that for a full minute, each trying to come to terms with what had just happened.   At last I broke the silence.   "It’s good to be back home.   I missed you."   

Chris reached behind him.   "I can tell."   

The weekend was spent working around the house, and by the time Sunday night came around, we were only too pleased to get a chance to sit down and enjoy our dinner.   The sun and the fresh air had taken their toll on us, and we munched through the scallops and salad in silence, enjoying the dark, star-studded sky, and the phosphorescent waves that flopped languidly on the beach at the turn of the tide.   Eventually Chris lifted his glass to me and said, "Thanks!"   

"For what?"   

"Keeping your mouth shut.   I know I was supposed to do all this stuff while you were up North, but instead I did other things."   He accented the last two words very slightly.   

I smiled at him.   "Any time."   I said, raising my glass.   If keeping that topic off the table was so important to Chris, I guessed I could live with it.   

For the next day or two Chris and the trouble that possibly hung over him gnawed at me, but, as day followed day without a SWAT team surrounding the house or the press reporting a manhunt for a homicidal geek, I began to consider that Chris might be being just a tad melodramatic.   And as the mundane, day-to-day problems arose demanding to be dealt with, the issue receded from my thoughts and life took up its normal pace again.   

Two months passed.   It was another Friday, and I was leaving a conference room in our Savannah office when I came face to face with Hugh in the corridor, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder as though he had come in from outside.   "Hey, Hugh!   Long time no see.   How’re things going?"   

I liked Hugh Pease.   He had been hired about a month after Assmussen and Watkins had brought me on board, and thus had freed me from being the junior in the firm.   He was a smart, outgoing guy with a great sense of humor, and we had become friends and allies, tacitly determined to prove to the partners that the New Blood was a valuable and indispensable asset to the legal team.   

"Not so great," he said.   He gave a wan smile and shrugged.   "My client had copped a plea with the DA for a six year sentence, but the judge was having a bad day and made it eight."   He lifted his hands, "Still," he said philosophically, "had the guy gone in front of a jury he’d have got three times that."   His tone changed and he placed his hand on my shoulder.   "So, how’s Brunswick treating you?   From what I hear you’re bringing in a ton of business."   

"Yup.   It’s pretty good so far.   Sure keeps me busy.   Hey, have you had lunch?"   He shook his head.    "Let’s go grab a bite.   You got the time?"   

"Sure."   He grinned at me, "Especially if you’re paying."   

"So what’s up with this client?"   I asked as I unwrapped the cutlery from its paper napkin cocoon.   

He grimaced.   "It’s Edward Hillman.   You know, Teddy Hillman in the Breidel murder case."   When the name elicited no reaction from me, he asked, "You don’t know about the case?"   

"Not really.   I kinda only half listen to the stuff on the morning conference calls.   I’ve got enough on my plate down in Brunswick."   As I said the words, something clicked in my mind.   "Oh, hang on.   Is that where some guy up here got poisoned?"   

"Uh-huh," Hugh nodded.   Hillman was the guy accused of administering the poison."   

"Did he do it?"   

Hugh considered his answer.   "You know, I really don’t know.   And I just don’t care."   He stopped for a few seconds.   "At the start I didn’t think he had.   He said he didn’t, and he seemed so earnest that I believed him.   The dead guy had left a suicide note."   Hugh paused again, briefly before going on, "But then things started to slide.   The note turned out to be phony.   It mentioned stuff the dead guy wasn’t involved in.   Stuff that he would have known was wrong, but someone not closely associated with him wouldn’t have.   Then, when I started to get a good look at the evidence the DA had, it seemed that my client had indeed been out to the victim’s house, even though he had said he hadn’t.   When I challenged him on this one, he admitted he had lied about not going out to the house, but seemed pretty adamant that the rest of the evidence the DA had wouldn’t hold up."   

"But it did?"   I ventured.   I knew Hugh:  if the evidence had been the slightest bit shaky, he would have nailed it.   

"I thought at first I could get by it at trial, but as discovery proceeded, new things surfaced, piece by piece, each maybe not damning in itself, but adding to the wall of evidence until it looked as though the whole thing was pretty solid.   

"Thank you," I said to the waiter as he placed a bowl of cheese tortellini in front of me.   

"So you advised the plea bargain," I asked Hugh once the parmesan had been grated.   

"We wouldn’t have stood a chance in front of a jury.   The evidence was just too strong.   And Hillman was just too flaky to put on the stand."   

"Flaky?"   

"Yeah.   Like he was trying to play some loosy-goosy game in the background with his defense without trusting me.   If I’d put him on the stand I wouldn’t have known what kind of a stunt he was going to pull."   

"Oh, one of those!"   

"Yeah.   As I told you, when I first met him, he said that he had nothing to do with it.   He said he hardly knew Breidel, and didn’t even know where he lived."   He took a mouthful of food and chewed it for a few seconds.   "Well, then the police found someone at the company who said that Hillman had gone out to Breidel’s house at some time a year or more ago to fix a PC problem for him.   That sunk that claim.   

"A few days later, the DA handed over more evidence, and one piece pointed to Hillman having been in the house more recently.   I confronted him with that, and he claimed he had gone out to Breidel’s house, but that was on the Thursday night — the night before the murder — and, again, the reason he gave was that he’d gone out to fix Breidel’s computer.   I might’ve bought that, but his explanation for the other evidence was that he was being framed.   He almost began to rant, saying that people in the company had it in for his family.   That the executives had passed over his father for some promotion in favor of Breidel, and now when Breidel had died, they were trying to pin a murder on him."   

"Did you point out that he was painting a plausible motive for either him or his father having killed Breidel?"   I asked.   

"Uh-huh.   He back-pedaled on that tack pretty smartly.   

"I think that’s when it really began to sink in that he wasn’t leveling with me.   I decided to press him on Breidel, and it wouldn’t have taken a psychiatrist to figure out that Hillman had some grudge against the guy.   Breidel was one of the — probably the top — research chemists at Zarcopharma, most everyone admired him.   Everyone except Hillman.   

"He seemed to think that the guy wasn’t as good as everyone made him out to be and, again, that he was leap-frogging his old man for a top promotion.   

"The biggest problem I had was that he had no friggin’ alibi for the Friday night — the night of the murder.    He lived by himself in an apartment near where his parents lived.   But they hadn’t seen him that night.    He said he went to a movie, but I couldn’t find anyone who had seen him there and he didn’t even have the ticket stub — said he’d thrown it away."   

"Which was probably just what he did do," I pointed out.   

"Yeah, I know.   But you know how juries can be.   They watch CSI and Law and Order and believe that everyone keeps these things tucked in a pocket.   And with the evidence the DA had that he had been in the dead guy’s house, the movie ticket evidence looked weak to the point of being sinister."   

"So you advised him to take a plea?"   

"Not right off.   Something in me made me still believe him, but I didn’t suggest a plea mainly because the DA hadn’t offered one.   About three weeks after they came through with one for involuntary manslaughter, unlawful act.   Six years."   

I considered it.   "Not too bad if he’s guilty," I conceded.   If he’d gone to trial he’d probably have got fifteen to twenty-five."   I bounced some thoughts around in my mind.   "What did the other side say the motive for the killing was?"   

"They claim that Hillman was stealing data related to some drug research that Zarco was doing and selling it.   They say Breidel had found out about them and was going to blow the whistle."   

I considered what he had said.   It sure sounded like a good motive to me.   Hugh continued, "But Hillman maintained it wasn’t true.   He said that there was no way he could have accessed the computer files without there being a trace and a security exception alert being set off."   

"Was that true?"   

"I think so.   That was something I had planned to drill into in cross examination.   Zarco wasn’t really cooperating with me before the trial."   

"What about the selling secrets?"   

My companion grimaced and rubbed his neck.   "That could to have been true.   The selling of them, that is.   There is definitely an investigation going on in that area.   But the link with Hillman is tenuous.   He doesn’t have easy access to those files and, although he lives at the very upper end of his means, his bank account is clean.   So where is the money?"   

"Couldn’t someone else have been selling the secrets and been the one that offed Breidel?"   

"Yeah," Hugh stretched the word out.   "The problem is, not all that many people had access to the data.    Breidel did since it was his project, and a couple of other people on his team, but when the investigators looked at their bank accounts and life styles, it would have been hard to build a case against any of them."   

"What did Hillman think about the plea offer when you told him?"   

"The day I told him he didn’t want to take it.   Wouldn’t hear of it, in fact.   He sat across my desk from me and said there was no way they could find evidence of any wrongdoing on his part.   

"Then," he said after taking a few mouthfuls of his food, "two days later, Zarcopharma reported Hillman’s computer had been stolen from his office.   They had the tag of the van the thief drove on their security cameras, and they traced it to a rental company.   That led the cops to the driver, and the Zarco receptionist identified him as the one who had come by the office.   He’d told her he’d been called to collect a broken PC.   A bit of pressure on him by the cops, a hint of jail time, elicited the information that the man was a friend of Hillman’s, and Hillman had asked him to get his desktop computer."   

"What?   Why did he do that?"   

"Who knows what goes on in that guy’s mind?   He said that he was afraid that ‘someone else’," Hugh used his fingers to place quotation marks around the words, "would plant files on it to frame him.   Zarcopharma didn’t press charges.   I had Hillman come up to my office, and I told him in no uncertain terms that another trick like that and I would request to be removed from the case.   That sobered him up," he grinned at me.   

"But there’s something more.   After he’d left, Fred Jackson came into my office.   ‘Was that a client of yours?’   he asked, and when I said it was, he said that he’d seen him that very lunchtime sitting with another lawyer in that little eating place down on West State, around from the courthouse."   

"I know the place," I said.   The food wasn’t bad, but I was surprised that Fred had been there.   Fred is a senior partner in the firm and rarely eats anywhere where the price of an entrée is less than $30.   "Did Fred know who the other lawyer was?"   

"Yeah.   This guy had been present at some discovery that Fred was at."   

"Did you ask Hillman what he was doing?"   

"Yeah.   I called him up right away.   Asked him if he was considering changing counsel.   He said no.    Said it was a guy from the firm that represented Zarcopharma and he had come to talk to him about his medical coverage, insurance and all that stuff while he was on vacation."   Hugh must have noticed my quizzical look, for he added, "Since he’d been arrested Zarcopharma had put him on paid vacation."   

"Hmm."   I mused.   "That lawyer was skating on pretty thin ethical ice, I’d say.   I would have had you present to make sure everything was on the up-and-up."   

"I made that abundantly clear to him.   I called him up and set him straight."   

"With all the dignity of your seniority," I kidded him.   

"Don’t mock, it paid off.   A couple of days later I got a visit from John Ethridge."   

"Not THE John Ethridge?"   

"Yup.   John Ethridge Esquire, the Ethridge in Ethridge, Hamilton, Stourbridge and Fraley."   

"He trying to recruit you?"   I joked.   Ethridge’s firm was one of the premier law companies in Savannah, even in Georgia, going back in their families for several generations, and they handled some very high-profile company accounts.   

"No.   Way stranger than that, even.   He came to me to apologize for this guy.   Apparently he’s a new-hire rookie in their firm and had made a goof."   

"Not a good start in a firm like that," I mused.   

"Ethridge was very humble.   He told me that this newbie, whose name is Allan Lyman by the way, had thought, since his business with Hillman had nothing to do with the case, he didn’t need to have me present."   

He explained that the company Hillman worked for didn’t want him to be fretting over anything other than his trial; they felt he’d been a loyal employee, and now they should stand by him as far as they could.   The new guy in the firm was anxious to prove himself, and ran off to pass on the good news.   Ethridge showed me all the papers that their rookie had got Hillman to sign, provided me with notarized copies, and even offered to have them nullified and re-presented if I didn’t like the contents."   

"So what’d you do?"   

Hugh gave a little sigh.   "The papers were benign.   Normal medical and insurance coverage stuff.   So I made a couple of mildly pointed remarks to him about their control of their staff, but otherwise I accepted his apology.   Apparently the new guy is being shifted to some remote spot for a while to contemplate his future."   He chuckled.   Being the new kid in a law firm can be terrifying.   "He went to Duke, so maybe he’s a tad full of his own importance and needed taking down a bit."   

He gave me a conspiratorial smile and I laughed.   As long as he wasn’t aiming at the University of Chicago I’d go along.   

"Anyway," Hugh said, "that night Hillman called me at home and told me to go ahead and accept the DAs offer."   

"Why the change of heart?"   

"No idea.   He wouldn’t say.   Just said he wanted to get it all over and done with."   

"And you think it had something to do with him getting caught trying to steal his computer?"   

Hugh shook his head.   "No.   I doubt it.   That was just dumb.   As I’d told him, the police had made a copy of his work computer, with Zarcopharma’s permission, after they charged him.   It didn’t matter if anyone added files — or deleted them for that matter — we had a copy of it.   

"Man, it was like being on a roller coaster ride.   On one hand, I thought the offer from the DA was more than fair."   He looked up with his fork halfway to his mouth.   "I’ll be frank with you:  at the time I thought it was manna from heaven.   But there was one more peculiarity.   When he was leaving my office after I’d been beating him up about the computer stealing thing, as he was leaving, halfway to the door, Mike, he turns to me with this real strange look on his face, and says, ‘My granddaddy always used to tell me, "When you chop down a tree be careful it don’t fall on you."   I forgot that.’    And then he walked out without saying anything else.   

"At the time I thought he was talking about the guy getting caught red handed stealing the computer, but the more I’ve thought about it since, the more I think he was talking about the whole case."   

"That’s wild!"   

Hugh shrugged.   

"So you got your deal, the client said ‘Let’s take it’, and then?"   

"Well, I delayed a day before getting back to the DA.   I thought maybe Hillman’d change his mind again.    But he didn’t."   

"So, you picked a guilty client.   No big deal.   He’d be up for fifteen, sixteen more years if it hadn’t been for you."   

"You see, Mike, that’s it.   That’s what has me wondering.   He has never actually admitted in so many words that he was guilty.   All he told me was to change the plea."   

"That’s really splitting hairs."   

"Well, when I was going through the plea with him, I was telling him the type of questions that they’d ask.    I said that, for instance, they’d want to know how he slipped the drugs into Breidel’s wine, that sort of stuff.   And he came right back and said, ‘I’d tell them I did it while he was getting something out the fridge."   

He paused, waiting.   And I saw it.   "You sure?   He said ‘I’d’ and not ‘I’ll’?"   

"You are good.   Yeah, it was ‘I’d’.   I’m a hundred percent sure.   The minute he said it, I knew."   

"The subjunctive."   I tapped my fork idly on my plate and mused out loud, "Now that is interesting.   No matter how hard one tries, the subconscious always tells the truth.   I wonder what he was trying to hide?"   

"I have no idea.   I honestly don’t.   I think that’s what tipped me into advising him to take the plea.   I knew he was hiding something and I had no idea what.   I had no real defense, and with him acting up like that I couldn’t risk putting him on the stand and have the DA springing a trap."   

"It’s a tough call," I agreed.   

He shrugged.   "It was probably for the best.   A jury would probably have nailed him."   

"Was the evidence strong?"   

"They had Hillman’s fingerprints on the glass that had the poison in it.   His and Breidel’s.   A couple of his hairs were caught in the brush of the victim’s vacuum cleaner.   There was some other stuff, too.   A footprint, faint in the dust, but it matched his shoes.   The other side seems to think they’ve got motive and opportunity."   

"What was the poison?"   

"Roofies.   Big overdose."   

"Roofies?   Was the dead guy trying to get high, or was your client trying to get him into bed?"   

"Dunno.   Initially the paramedics went along with the suicide theory, it was a real big overdose and the victim was sitting in his chair, and there was the note.   Then the forensics guys hit the place and noticed that the house looked as though it had been cleaned up.   Not something that would-be suicides usually do.   

"Who discovered the dead guy?"   

"It was after the weekend.   Breidel lived by himself.   When he didn’t turn up at work the next week, and nobody could get him on the phone, a couple of guys from his work went over on their lunch hour and found him dead.   Coroner estimated the death as having probably occurred the previous Friday some time."   

"Hmm.   And with no alibi for your client… Looks kinda bad.   And the DA surely would have made it look that way."   

I changed tack.   "Why did the police charge your client?"   

"As I say, opportunity and motive."   

"Any other fingerprints?"   

"Nope.   The place has been wiped."   

"How about a girlfriend?"   

"Hillman or Breidel?"   

"Breidel."   

"Boyfriend."   I gave a start.   "Yeah, it came as a surprise to everyone at Zarcopharma, but it turns out that Breidel played in your league — although, apparently, he was very much in the closet.   His work colleagues had assumed he was too involved with his work to have a social life.   But he had a boyfriend on the QT.   Guy in the Marines who has been deployed over in Iraq for quite a while, which was why he was never around in Savannah for Breidel’s colleagues to know about.   This guy’d actually just finished his stint and had been discharged — must have kept his orientation quiet, because the discharge was honorable."   

"Yeah.   Go figure.   Kill a dozen men and you get a medal.   Love one and they throw you out."   

"I know.   It’s a crock."   

"D’you check the boyfriend out?"   I asked.   

"Yeah.   He gets the major share from Breidel’s will, so the cops contacted him.   But he was in Phoenix that night:  he was driving cross-country from San Diego to come back here."   

"When was he discharged?"   

"The Friday a week before."   

I mulled this over for a second or two, "Naah, Hugh.   That doesn’t ring true.   He’s been away from the States for God knows how long, he gets discharged, and it takes him more than a week to get to his boyfriend?   There’s something we don’t know going on there."   

"You think so?   I didn’t really know what to make of that.   Not sure what goes on in the minds of …"  He caught himself.   

"Of you people?"   

"Sorry.   I didn’t mean it like it sounds."   

"No offence taken."   I gave him a smile.   "Just wanted to make you squirm."   

He laughed.   "You jerk!"   Hugh was an OK guy — I was probably the only gay guy he really knew well.    "Yeah, I thought it was strange," he went on, "but he seemed above board.   He checked into a hotel in the Phoenix area on the Thursday afternoon.   Saturday he met up with a Marine buddy of his who’d been through Quantico with him.   He checked out on the Monday.   The cops checked that out.   Before that, it seems he had been hiking and camping in some wilderness area right after he was discharged."   Hugh gave a wry smile.   "You’d think after being stuck in Iraq he’d have had his fill of wilderness, wouldn’t you?"   

"Uh-huh," I nodded.   "Do you think Ethridge’s guy got to him?"   I asked.   "To your client, I mean.   Seems a bit too coincidental that, just after his visit, he changes his plea."   

"No," he replied quickly.   "No, not at all.   At least not in any underhand way.   Maybe from that meeting Hillman began to realize that the trial wasn’t just about him.   Maybe he saw what going to trial would mean to his parents.   The publicity, the TV, the waiting.   And, of course, the chance that he would be found guilty."   

"And so he told you to accept the offer?"   

"Yeah,"

I considered what he’d told me, and neither of us spoke for close on a minute.   

"Y’know, given what you’ve told me, I think you did the right thing," I said at last.   "We’re here to represent the client, to do our best for him, protect his interests, but it doesn’t require us to be his mother."   

"I know.   But still…," his voice lapsed into silence.   

"Why was the plea bargain so lenient?"   I asked.   "That is the fly in the ointment to my mind.   It’s as though the DA’s folk want to make it real enticing.   Even the judge balked at it.   So maybe their evidence wasn’t that good after all."   

"Yeah.   I’ve been wondering that, too.   I spoke to Jackson about it, and he thinks it’s for two reasons.    One, they have a huge backlog of cases that they’re getting bad press on.   Folk sitting in jail without being brought to trial, that kind of stuff.   Getting the deal will speed this one through the system and free up staff for other cases.   Two, the DA is trying to be seen as running a financially tight ship.   Looks good if he gets a win and it doesn’t set the taxpayers back the whole cost of a jury trial.   And, face it, Hillman isn’t a big threat to society."   

"OK."   I thought about what he’d said.   "Sounds reasonable.   I guess."   

The remainder of the lunch passed with little more of import being discussed, and twenty minutes later I was shaking Hugh’s hand and heading for my car.   

His problem, however, remained hovering in the back of my mind for the following ninety minutes or so as I drove back down to Brunswick.   So sudden a plea change without good reason seemed distinctly odd to me, especially if the man hadn’t discussed the pros and cons with his attorney.   Doubly so if it came after a visit from another lawyer.   

I was walking to my desk when I saw Don, the firm’s latest twenty-something addition, head to the break room.   .   

"Hey, Don," I asked, following him.   "When you were at Duke, did you know a guy called," I paused, recalling the name Hugh had mentioned, "Something Lyman?"   

"Allan Lyman?"   

"Right."   

"Yeah, sure.   He was in my class.   Why?"   

I shrugged.   "I dunno.   Just wondered what kind of person he was."   

I liked Don.   Unconventional but hard working, he had a disarming straightforwardness that appealed to jury people.   He and I had formed a strong rapport and we worked well together.   He took the cup of coffee from under the machine, set it down and picked up a little tub of Half-and-Half.   "Smart," he replied, concentrating on peeling back the foil cover.   "Real smart guy.   Aced everything he put his hand to."   

"Did he have a good grasp of law?   Legal ethics?"   

"Mike, that guy could have passed the bar exam without opening a book."   He poured some of the white liquid into his cup, before looking up at me.   "That was how he always was, he would skim through law books like they were novels, and he’d remember everything he read."   He tossed the little container into the tub.   "Yeah, he’s honest.   I’d trust him.   No funny shyster stuff with him."   

"OK.   Thanks."   Don was pretty adept himself, so if he considered Lyman to be better, the guy must be way above average.   

"Sure thing, boss."   I had taken only two steps when he added, "Just to set your expectations, when I knew him he was straight."   

"When’s your review due?"   I asked rhetorically as I walked into the corridor and I heard him laugh.   

The afternoon was busy.   I had had to go up to H Street to the court, so it was close on six when I was back at my desk, finally shutting down my PC for the evening.   "Funny you should have been asking about Lyman," Don said.   I turned and found him leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb, his tie down, collar unbuttoned.   Don had a quick mind that could cut through the chaff and get to the core of an argument in seconds, and he could recall facts from obscure cases on demand, but we surely had not hired the man for his demeanor.   

"Why d’you say that," I asked, realigning my thoughts having almost forgotten Hugh’s problem.   

"I was chatting with another buddy of mine this afternoon.   Apparently Allan’s going to live out in California for a while.   Seems like his wife has got this beaucoup-de-bucks-grant to do some research at some big deal university out in Sacramento or somewhere — she’s getting her doctorate in bio-chemical engineering.   It was a bit of a problem for the two of them, what with her getting this break yet Allan having landed this great job and all down here in Savannah.   Then Ethridge, Hamilton and whoever came through for him:  they got him a job with some big law firm out west.   They’re paying his moving expenses, everything.   I told you he was good."   

"Impressive!"   

"You reckon you could put in a good word to A & W to get me a job out in California?"   he laughed.   

"The partners wanted to send you out there," I said, hitching my computer bag onto my shoulder, "but I told them you’re too valuable for us to lose."   

"Yeah, right.   It was that remark I made about Allan being straight, wasn’t it?"   

"Uh-huh.   That sunk you, bud.   We’re sending Brownlee out to California instead."   Will Brownlee was a timid paralegal who worked in our Savannah office and who had risen about as far as he was ever likely to go.   He would certainly be the last candidate on any transfer list.   

Don gave a groan.   "Oh man, that hurts!   Well, I guess you’ll see me here in the morning, then."   

"Sure.   Have a good night.   Try and keep out of trouble."   

My mind was racing as I closed my door behind me and walked down the corridor.   Far from putting their black sheep in a remote spot as Hugh had been told, Ethridge’s boy-wonder was actually doing very well for himself.   A skeptic might even think of it as being rewarded.   Curiouser and curiouser.   

Flipping open my cell phone as I walked out the door, I called Hugh.   

"Want to know what punishment you get at Ethridge and Hamilton for being ethically challenged?"   I asked when he answered.   

"What?   Some hell-hole in Alabama where they haven’t heard about air conditioning or that the world is round, and all legal decisions are based on the Ten Commandments?"   

"How about you get an all-expenses-paid move out to Sacramento and the partners call in a favor and get you a position with a top-notch legal firm in the city."   

I heard Hugh give a low whistle.   "Not bad."   

"Still think your client’s change of mind had nothing to do with this boy’s visit?"   

"I dunno.   It’s hard to believe.   Ethridge’s guys don’t usually skate on thin ice."   

"Maybe if you’re handling an account for a place like Zarcopharma, you bend over a little now and then?"   

"Well, I can hardly go and give my own client the third degree to find out if he’s lying about the visit."   

I thought that one over.   "No.   I guess not."   

He sighed.   "No, Mike, I’ve been thinking about it:  Hillman accepted the plea.   If he thinks the deal is OK, it probably is a good move for him.   The best I could have offered him is fifty-fifty on an acquittal."   

I respected Hugh’s acumen, and if he was thinking of letting this one slide he was probably right.   And though his client’s change of plea was an enticing conundrum for my mind, other events drove thoughts of it onto a back burner for the following four or five weeks.   Firstly there was Ricardo.   Assmussen and Watkins generally took on two or three interns from law schools during the end-of-year vacation, and one of them, Ricardo, was assigned to our office.   The beginning of summer had brought on a spate of petty crimes that were just now coming to trial, which kept Don and me on the go.   Fortunately Ricardo, was pretty sharp and a self-starter, so all we had to do was tell him what we needed and point him in the right direction and he would get things done.   Unfortunately he was pretty sharp and a self-starter, so I needed to keep an eye on him to prevent him from letting the undertow of his enthusiasm pull him rapidly out of his depth.   Secondly I found myself temporarily solo again as Chris’s company had sent him to England for four weeks to work on his airplane software with the ADS-B team at QinetiQ, which meant that all the day-to-day responsibility of shopping, making meals and the general household chores fell on me.   

It was the day that Chris was due back.   I had figured that since I would have to be going up to Savannah anyway to pick him up from the airport, I may as well go into the city office and get caught up with some of my admin work that was simply easier to do there.   At the end of the afternoon, just as I was ready to leave with briefcase in hand and computer bag over shoulder, Hugh caught up with me.   

"Mike, I think I’ve figured out what happened in that Hillman case," he said.   "Can I run it by you or are you busy?"   

"Hugh, I have to leave right now:  I’m picking Chris up at the airport in half an hour."   

"Oh, OK."   He appeared crestfallen.   "Maybe next week, then," he added hopefully.   

"Man, I’m in court every day next week.   How about the following one?"   

"I guess…" Again the look of dejection.   

"Look, I haven’t spent a lot of time on it, but I’ve been thinking about your case, too.   I think I know where you’re coming from.   How about coming down for dinner with Chris and me next Friday — or are you going away for the long weekend?"   

Hugh shook his head.   "No, I’ll be in town."   

"Cool.   Come round then.   Chris gets a kick out of puzzles and he’ll like this one."   

And thus seven days later, with my lover pretty much back on East Coast time, Hugh sat at our table with us.   The dinner conversation had been of a general nature, much of it centered on Chris’s trip to the UK, but when Hugh had declined a third helping of the Chicken Cacciatore Chris had prepared, I prodded him towards the subject of his visit.   

"So, Hugh, you ready to tell us about your client and your theory?"   

"OK.   Sure."   He pushed his chair back slightly.   "Has Mike told you about this case?"   he asked, looking toward Chris.   

"He hit the high spots while we were getting the dinner ready.   I think I have the gist of it."   

"Well let me give you a quick synopsis," Hugh said, and for the next twenty five minutes he ran through roughly what he had told me at our first lunch.   

"So you’re worried about your client deciding to take a plea bargain?"   Chris asked.   

"Well, not exactly worried.   More like puzzled.   Ever since I’d seen the evidence I’d advised him to take what the DA offered.   If he went to trial, he had a good chance of a jury finding him guilty and that would have landed him more than double the time he’s got.   So, if he’d taken the plea from the start, I wouldn’t have given things a second thought.   It was that he’d been so adamant that he could prove his innocence at the beginning, and then later something happened that changed his mind.   And, at the time I had no idea what it was.   I just had this nagging suspicion that he hadn’t really done it.   Now I’ve had a chance to do some digging around, and I think I know who did kill Keith Breidel."   

"I’d have thought that someone entering a guilty plea was probably guilty," Chris observed.   

"Not if he were, or thought he were, protecting someone else — like his father."   

Chris shrugged.   "Could happen, I guess."   

"So what’s your theory, Hugh?"   I asked, impatient to hear his version of what I knew — or thought I knew.   

Hugh picked up his wine glass and settled back in his chair.   "The way I see it, it was that Marine guy, Jim Spizziri, Breidel’s boyfriend," he said, looking up at us as though ready to face a challenge.   

None came.   "OK.   Shoot," I said.   This was a different angle — and a different suspect — from what I’d thought up.   Even though Hugh had built a reputation for digging up evidence and for being thorough when it comes to sifting through what he uncovered, yet I found myself unwilling to admit he could have ferreted out more than I had.   Or did my hesitation arise because the person in his sights was Jim Spizziri?   

"Well," Hugh said, "it seemed that every time I looked for a suspect, I’d end up running into brick walls.    Everyone who had a motive seemed to have an alibi.   Everything fit just too perfectly.   It didn’t sit right with me.   So I went back to square one and made a list of everyone who benefited from Breidel’s death.   I should have done this from the beginning, but at the time I guess I got too taken in by the evidence the DA had.   

"Who gained from Dr.   Breidel’s death?"   He looked from me to Chris.   "He has no close relatives.   His parents are dead, and he has no siblings.   

"We’ve got Edward Hillman.   If he has been selling secrets to a competitor he certainly wouldn’t want that fact to be exposed.   That would be a motive to be sure.   But what if what he said were true:  That he could not have got to the data without an alarm being set off in their systems?   That would have limited his opportunity, and, as opportunity diminishes, so does motive.   And if he had been selling these research files, where are the proceeds?   What did he do with the money?"   

He paused and looked from me to Chris.   "When you come down to it, the only one that really gained anything substantial was Spizziri.   He is Breidel’s sole beneficiary under the will.   True, Breidel didn’t have much of a bank balance, but he’s got a nice portfolio of Zarcopharma shares, worth close to three quarters of a million as of last week; a pretty house in a good area of Savannah; and a hot sports car.   And his company life insurance is going to pay out a pretty handsome sum.   

"Know what Lt Col Spizziri had before Breidel died?   I don’t know the exact amount, but roughly it’s a twenty-five year old house in a so-so area outside Tempe, Arizona, that he rents out; what he’s saved from his Marine pay over a couple of years; a five-year-old pickup truck," he paused for the effect, and added, "and a discharge from the Marines a year before his tour was up."   

"How old was this Marine guy?"   Chris asked.   

"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight."   

"Kinda young to be a Lieutenant Colonel in the Corps," Chris pointed out.   "They’re not known for promoting brown-nosers, so he must have done something right.   And then he gets an early discharge.    But he’s also the boyfriend of a smart scientist back East.   So let me guess," Chris said bitterly, fixing Hugh with a stare that seemed accusing, "these rocket scientists in the Pentagon had this fast-tracking officer who, all of a sudden, turns out to be gay.   God knows we have absolutely no shortage of recruits right now, and we all know there’s no war being fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, yet they reckon they can afford to toss him."   He grimaced in disgust and reached over to recharge his glass.   He paused with the bottle in hand and asked, "Please don’t tell me it was a ‘bad conduct’?"   

"Nope," Hugh replied, "he got an honorable discharge.   He was more-or-less the iconic Marine.   He had the normal Global War on Terrorism Service, the Iraq Campaign and the National Defense Service Medals, but a couple of years back he’d got wounded by some shrapnel from an IED.   That got him a Purple Heart.    But it wasn’t the medal that sealed his reputation within the Corps, it was that when he got hit, he stood there bleeding over his taxpayer-provided uniform, yet wouldn’t let the medics touch him until he was sure all the men in his team were safe or being evacuated."   

I whistled softly.   I hadn’t known that.   

"So here’s a guy who puts the welfare of the guys in his platoon ahead of his own, and you think he’d turn around and kill his boyfriend?"   asked Chris.   "I don’t buy it."   

"That’s because you’re not a Marine," Hugh replied.   "That’s exactly why I think he killed his boyfriend."   

He sat forward earnestly.   "These guys live and die for the Corps.   Their Semper Fi isn’t a war chant, it’s a credo for them.   Once you’re in the Marines you never really leave.   Even after your discharge you consider yourself a Marine.   To lose that status would be, I reckon, an almost unbearable slap in the face.    And I think it was Keith Breidel who outed Spizziri.   Maybe it wasn’t intentional — or maybe it was.    Maybe the continuous tension of his lover being in a combat zone eventually got to Breidel.   Maybe he started to think that this Iraq War was looking like being another endless Nam that was unwinnable.   Tours of duty are being extended, soldiers are going back for their second and third stints over there.   Maybe it seemed to Breidel that it might never end.   Or worse, that one day he might find himself in his best suit, holding the flag neatly folded into a triangle.   

"Or," he continued, "on the other hand, maybe Breidel hadn’t thought about the consequences at all.    Perhaps Breidel himself wanted to come out and chose the Internet to get his toes wet, not reckoning on the Marines ever finding out.   In any case, he posted some photos of himself and Spizziri frolicking around in the nude amongst the dunes.   A couple of them had some hard sex going on.   But apparently the Marine Brass did get to see them and decided that it wasn’t in the Corps’ best interests to have this kind of recruiting poster, so Spizziri got canned."   

"I dunno," Chris remarked.   "Sex on the beach with a buff young Marine would be a benefit that could make me consider signing up."   

But Hugh was intent on getting his theory out and, other than a brief smile that disappeared from his mouth as quickly as it came, he ignored Chris.   "See, I think if it was those photos that got Spizziri discharged, it wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to get revenge.   In spite of what his unit thought of him, the early discharge was sure to lower the opinion many other Marines had of him, and that must have hurt."   

"What makes you think Breidel put the photos on the Web?"   I asked.   

"Who else would have access to them?   From the photos it was pretty obvious that he was the guy behind the camera."   

"Look, let’s back up," he continued.   "We’re getting this all out of order.   Let me tell you how I came to figure this all out."   

"Yeah," I said, "I’m getting a bit confused.   Take it from the top."   

"As I said, when Hillman first insisted on taking the plea bargain, I was at a loss as to why.   Up until that day he’d been insistent on his innocence.   Then, suddenly he did this 180 degree turn on me.   And I hadn’t the faintest idea what was behind it.   I tell you guys, it was such an impetuous and unexpected change in direction that I wasn’t convinced that he was genuine."   

"How much did he know about the crime?"   Chris asked.   "If he hadn’t done it, there should have been inconsistencies."   

"That’s the very thing that hooked the DA when Hillman took the plea.   When they interviewed him he had answers down pat for everything.   From their point of view, that sealed it.   But you see, by that time I’d gone through with him all the stuff from the discovery motion that we’d been given, so by the time the DA’s office spoke with him he had had time to memorize details and come up with a satisfactory background."   

Chris raised his brows and nodded.   

"But something just didn’t sit right with me.   I felt I wasn’t the one calling the shots any more.   Hillman was jerking me around.   I went and spoke with Fred Jackson about it, but he wasn’t much help:  once he’d seen the evidence the State had, he figured out that the plea bargain was very fair — that I had done a good job."   

He fell silent, either recollecting his frustration or marshalling his thoughts, I couldn’t be sure.   I looked over at Chris who seemed to be conducting an experiment of friction with his wine glass, and I wondered what he was making of this tale.   Normally he was a lot more argumentative, but, after all, he had had a busy week and was only just getting over the last of his jet lag.   Hugh leaned forward, took a sip of wine and continued.   

"But I couldn’t just let go, and eventually — I think it was more to get me to shut up than because he believed me — Jackson agreed to let me get Freiman to dig around a bit."   

"Who’s Freiman?"   Chris asked, surfacing from his tests and giving some evidence that he’d been listening.   

"Aaron Freiman is a private investigator we use sometimes," I enlightened him, and, to tease him some, added, "That is, unless you have some computer nerd available who digs up crazy shit that no one else would think of and pulls your ass out the fire."   

Chris laughed and raised his glass to me.   

Hugh pulled a grimace.   "Maybe I should’ve come to you for help rather than Mike," he said.   

"I guess you should have," remarked my lover with a twinkle in his eye.   "But first you need to ask Mike about my payment scheme."   And for the only time since I had known him, the suave Hugh Pease was at a loss for words.   

"Bad Geek!"   I said, wagging my finger at Chris, which only made him laugh again, turning to me and puckering his lips in a kissing motion.   

"As…I…was…saying," Hugh spoke in mock seriousness, his composure completely recovered.   

"Yeah, ignore Chris," I said.   "I want to hear your theory."   

"Well, Freiman took a drive out by Breidel’s house one evening and noticed Spizziri cleaning his pickup truck.   The mats from the cab were out, and a plastic bag of what appeared to be trash was lying on the ground.   With this in mind, he returned during the week when Spizziri’s trash can was at the curbside awaiting collection, and dumped the whole lot into a big sack which he took home.   Sure enough…"

"You can’t just take someone’s trash without a warrant," Chris exclaimed.   "Can you?"   he said looking at me.   

"The Supreme Court says you can."   I explained.   "Once you put your trash out you waive any expectations of privacy you had.   Hobos, children, dogs, anyone, can — and do — come by and rummage through your stuff.   The justices figured — well most of them figured — that since you know this before you put your trash out, you can’t say you have an expectation of privacy.   That’s why people went out and invented shredders."   

"Man, that is such bullshit!"   Chris protested.   "What I throw out is a very personal record of what I do.    Why should anyone else have a right to examine it?"   

"Well, the garbage man sees it, so why shouldn’t anyone else?"   I said, playing Devil’s advocate, since, personally, I tended to concur with his position.   

"All I can say is thank God for the Internet," my guy grumbled.   Hugh was grinning broadly, guessing rightly that Chris was probably more concerned about the occasional issue of Playguy or Men that he buried in the middle of the recycling rather than the possibility of a neighbor nicking a discarded copy of Cycleworld.   

He let the silence hang for a few seconds to make sure Chris was finished before continuing.   "In Spizziri’s trash he came across two things of interest:  a receipt for the parking garage at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport.   Seems he parked there on the Thursday evening before Breidel was killed and retrieved his car on the Saturday — the day after.   The other thing he found was a Frontier Airlines ticket jacket with a flight number and a gate number.   When he looked it up, it was an Atlanta to Phoenix flight.   

"So," Hugh said after pausing to let this revelation sink in, "instead of being out West as our boy wanted us to believe, we now find out he was actually in Georgia at the time.   He also rented a car."   He gave a rueful smile, "It took me the best part of a night and some Scotch tape to piece together the receipt he’d torn up.   Unfortunately some of the pieces were too soaked by other trash to make it complete, so I don’t know how many miles he put on it, but I know he had it for just under a day and a half."   

"Maybe the fact that he’d ripped it up would be an indication of an expectation that he didn’t want anyone else to read it," Chris said rhetorically.   

Hugh smiled at him, but didn’t take the bait.   "So here I have motive and opportunity.   The means we know.   I think that, given the Corps’ zealous adherence to honor, I think I could persuade a jury that Spizziri’s motive was more compelling than Hillman’s."   

"Have you found out any more about that trade secret stealing?"   I asked.   "Was it true?" 

"It looks that way, but keep this to yourselves.   Zarco called in some favors from a couple of State Senators and they put pressure on the DA, so all that’s in the papers is that there were some ‘internal irregularities’.   And anyway, while Cerynitis admits they received the files, they deny they paid anything for them and there is no evidence of Hillman having any money that couldn’t be explained by a W2.    Zarcopharma brought a suit against Cerynitis to recover their files and get awarded damages.   The whole thing was hushed up and settled out of court just this week with no one admitting any wrongdoing.   The judge had all the documents sealed, so I don’t know the details.   It’s not good for their image if the drug-taking public thinks that the medicines they’re taking are the product of skullduggery.   They prefer the picture of white-coated, grey-bearded scientists bent over microscopes and racks of test tubes."   

"You told the DA of your theory?"   I inquired.   

"I tried to.   The only guy who had any time to hear me out was Doug Jafek over at their office, and he wasn’t much interested."   

I snorted.   Dilatory Doug was Jafek’s nickname amongst the lawyers in all the law firms in Savannah.    A paper-pusher with a big mouth he had never, as far as anyone could remember, had a win in court.    Rumor had it that if you knew he was going to represent the State in a case, you could probably not even turn up in court and still get an acquittal for your client.   

"Yeah, I know," Hugh sighed, "but he was the only one who would even listen to me.   The way they figure things, they’ve got one crime and they’ve got one confession and one conviction.   All very neat."   He looked at me from under his black eyebrows.   "They don’t see the need to continue the hunt."   

"So what are you going to do?"   Chris asked.   

Hugh picked up his wine glass and studied it for a half minute or more "Nothing."   He clenched his lips together in a hard line.   He shook his head.   "Nothing.   My client is to all intents and purposes sane.    He admits he did it.   He assured the judge he made the admission under no duress.   

"All I have is a theory.   And questions that can’t be asked unless the DA takes an interest."   

"Like what?"   I asked.   

"Like how Spizziri managed to afford a new pickup truck and get an in-ground pool put in when Breidel’s will is still in probate."   

"The will is an open document.   He could have got credit based on it."   

"Perhaps," Hugh agreed dubiously, "but I doubt it."   

"You said your trash-rat found an airline ticket jacket of this Marine guy.   Did you see it?"   Chris asked before I could say more.   

"Yes.   Why?"   

"Did it have any checked-bag stubs stapled to it?"   

Hugh thought for a minute.   "No.   No it didn’t.   But that doesn’t mean much:  most folks take their stuff in the cabin these days — especially if they’re only going away for a day or two."   

"Yeah," Chris said absently.   "Just thought it’d show if Atlanta was his end-point or whether he connected there from somewhere else."   

"Hmm…Like Savannah?"   

"Savannah would strengthen your theory, somewhere else would weaken it."   He thought for a few seconds.   "OK.   Say you’re right.   Say the Marine killed the scientist.   Why did your client turn around and say he did it?"   

"I think he believed he was protecting his father.   His father is a loyal, hard working researcher, and would have probably had a good shot at the directorship if Breidel hadn’t been around.   Breidel was a whiz-kid.   Natural talent and ability.   And possibly, through being younger, a better person for the job in this new world in which we operate.   Once Breidel was out of the way, the senior Hillman was once again in the running — but not if there was any suspicion that he had passed the research files to his son.   At that point, the only way Hillman could save his father was to confess to having done it by himself.   

"And then, of course," Hugh added, slightly self consciously, "there was the cost of his defense.   Costs were adding up.   Sooner or later, probably sooner, he was going to be out of funds.   He sold his boat and his Corvette, but eventually his father was going to have to start paying."   

Hugh stopped talking, and silence settled over the table as we all considered what he had told us.   Chris was the first to speak.   "Maybe he took the plea because he knows when it’s over he has all that money to spend.   The loot from selling the data."   

"The thought had crossed my mind," Hugh said with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"So if your client says he did the crime and you think he didn’t," Chris asked, "how do you account for the evidence of him being in the house?   Like the fingerprints on the glass, the shoe print in the dust and whatever?"   

"He admits he had been out there, but a day before.   Breidel had a problem with his home PC.   He was a brilliant chemist but pretty clueless about computers apparently.   He’d told a colleague that one of the Zarcopharma IT guys had agreed to come out and help him.   Hillman says he went out to fix it."   

"What was the problem?"   Chris bored in, "And was it fixed?"   

Hugh threw up his hands.   "I don’t know.   He never told me what the problem was, but Hillman says he fixed it."   

"And you didn’t double check?"   

"Why on earth would I have done that?"   

"Because if the problem hadn’t been fixed, you would have known your client was lying."   

Hugh thought this one through.   "I guess."   

"What about the roofies in the glass?"   Chris pressed on.   

"That part’s a bit speculative.   My guess is that when Hillman came out to work on the computer, Breidel gave him a drink.   Perhaps Breidel hadn’t cleared it away, perhaps it was in an out-of-the-way place and he overlooked it.   Anyway, the glass was still there when Spizziri came along on the Friday.   He must have come in late Thursday night or early Friday morning, because otherwise Breidel would have set off for work.   My guess is that Spizziri walked in.   Breidel was happy to see him, and Spizziri poured them each a glass of wine — adding the large dose of roofies to Breidel’s glass.   Once Breidel had passed out, Spizziri cleaned up.   He realized that the glass that actually did have the roofies in it also had his fingerprints on it.   But he had noticed this other wine glass standing there — a glass that could not have his prints on it since he had never touched it.   So, thinking the glass was Breidel’s, he dumped the contents of the poison glass in to make it look like a suicide.   And then he typed up the note to mislead everyone."    Hugh continued to expand on his theory but I wasn’t listening.   The import of Chris’s earlier question had suddenly registered in my brain and my thoughts began to churn feverishly.   

The realization that no one was talking brought me out of my thought trance to see the two guys looking at me.   "Oh, sorry.   My mind was elsewhere.   What were you saying?"   

Hugh smiled mischievously.   "Well I’m glad my theory held your rapt attention," he said.   "I asked you what you thought of it."   

"It’s workable.   Things could have happened that way.   It has the ring of authenticity that would probably achieve your objective of sowing reasonable doubt in the minds of some jury members.   Did you run any of it by Jim Spizziri, by the way?"   

"No.   I didn’t want to go there.   Didn’t want to tip him off.   I was kinda hoping the DA’s guys would do that, but, as I said, they don’t want to do the work."   

"Cut them some slack.   They just don’t want to go up against me in court.   My client didn’t do it."   

"Your client?"   Hugh jerked up as though galvanized and even Chris stiffened.   "Who’s your client?    You never told me you had any interests in this case.   You’ve never said anything on the morning calls."    He looked at me with bewildered anxiety.   "Mike, if you had an interest in anyone involved in this case you had a duty to tell me.   And you shouldn’t have let me tell you all this stuff."

"Relax, Hugh.   Don’t get all bent out of shape!   I’m not representing anyone associated with the case.    Yet.   But if Jim Spizziri gets roped in, I’ve got a feeling he’ll want me to represent him."   

"How did you get involved with him?"   Hugh asked, barely relaxing.   

"Before you get all wound up, remember it was you who dragged me in to this case.   Well, it caught my interest and I started to probe around a bit — just casually you know.   Just in my spare time — nothing official.   But I found out some stuff and came up with a different scenario to yours."   

"And you held out on me?"   

"No, Hugh.   Why would I do that?   No, it’s just that I have been really busy.   All I’ve got is some raw facts.   I was planning on telling you once I had all my ducks in a row, but I just haven’t got everything quite straight in my mind yet as to how it could have happened."   

"So how about telling me what you have got?"   Hugh suggested.   "I think that’s only fair since you sat there and let me show you my entire hand."   

"Look.   Chill, buddy!   Let me open another bottle of Shiraz and then I’ll lay it out for you."   And so, with glasses emptied and recharged from the new bottle, I began to recount what I’d discovered in the past four weeks.   

In gathering my thoughts I realized that while I’d pondered the case on and off since first Hugh had told me about it, the most telling facts fell into my lap on just two days.   The first had been a Saturday about three weeks previous.   In England Chris had taken the opportunity of the good weather to motor up from Boscombe Down to Yorkshire for the weekend to visit a cyber buddy who was taking him to grovel around the coal cinders and steam and oil of some preserved railway.   Ah well, boys will be boys, I mused.   From the Carolinas to Florida, not a cloud marred the Georgia sky, and the warm weather enticed me to play truant from chores and go up to Savannah to have some lunch and browse around the book stores there.    I pulled on a pair of white jeans and shuddered at the thought of being up close and personal with a steam locomotive.   

There wasn’t much traffic on the way up I-95 and my thoughts, freed from the normal weekday grind, gravitated to Hugh’s case.   As the exit sign came up for state-route 204 it jolted my memory and I recalled that the dead guy had lived somewhere in the Isle of Hope area.   On an impulse I swung off the highway and headed east, skirting the southern edge of the city.   In Oakhurst I found a Starbucks with a wireless hotspot.   Logging on to our server I found out the address I needed, and setting it up in my GPS, set out to find Wylly Avenue.   Eventually, zigzagging down the tree covered streets, I came to the long, ranch-style house that stood about 100 yards from the creek.   In the driveway stood a sleek sports car and a white pickup truck.   This latter was surrounded by rags and sponges and a hose whose nozzle dribbled water.    A pair of scarlet running shorts provided the only cover to a tall, muscular man who was drying off the cab and hood.   

I drove past, my mission now seeming somewhat presumptuous, but at the end of the road my curiosity overcame my manners (and better judgment), and I swung the Audi around and returned, pulling up to the curb outside the house.   

"Hi," I said as I walked up the driveway.   

"Morning," the man replied in a pleasant tone, although he didn’t smile.   "Can I help you?"   

I hesitated.   I had been so intent on finding the address I hadn’t spent much time planning what I was going to say.   "I’m Mike Jorgensen.   I work for Assmussen and Watkins."   I handed over one of my business cards, and he wiped his hands on the red shorts before taking it.   "Our firm represented Edward Hillman, the man who…"

"I know who that bastard is," he said, his head jerking up from my card to meet my gaze through narrowed eyes.   "Let me tell you, bud, he’s lucky he’s in jail because if he wasn’t, he’d be dead by now."   

"Yes."   I faltered.   The man in front of me had become tense, the tendons in his neck tight, and as he turned his body to face me, his weight concentrated on the balls of his feet.   "I was wondering if I could talk to you about things that you knew about Dr. Breidel.   I wasn’t closely involved in the case from the beginning, and sometimes it helps to get a fresh start."   

"A fresh start?   What d’you mean?   I thought the guy had already been sentenced."   

"He has.   But, there were some things about the case that were a bit puzzling," I said.   "There was something unusual in the way Hillman wanted his defense run.   Initially he insisted he was innocent and then, very abruptly and for no reason we could fathom, changed his mind when the State offered a plea bargain, and pled guilty.   It seemed really strange to me and I wondered…"

"If I had threatened him?"   He stared at me without changing his posture and I began to feel vulnerable.    "No, I never spoke with him.   I never even got to set eyes on him — thanks to his plea."   He dried his hands on one of the rags.   With the damp cloth still in his fingers he looked up at me.   "Believe me, I wanted that bastard to go to trial.   I wanted to watch him as he was publicly shredded."   A thought suddenly occurred to him.   "You’re trying to get his sentence overturned, aren’t you?"   

"No.   Not quite like that."   I stammered, taking a step back as he advanced on me.   

"‘Not quite?’   Then what?   If he’s been sentenced the case is over, right?   So why would you be prowling around digging for stuff?"   

"But what if things didn’t happen the way he said?   What if something else was going on, don’t you think we need to find out what really happened."   

"Get off my property," the man said, the tendons in his neck now as taught as guitar strings.   "Get the fuck off and don’t come back."   

"OK, OK," I said, holding my hands up and retreating.   "Look, I just wanted to talk."   The man appeared ready to spring and I didn’t turn my back on him until I reached the sidewalk.   

As I turned the key in the ignition he came up to the car.   "I’ll tell you this only once, so listen good.   If you use some bullshit, shyster trick to get that sack of shit out of jail, you can tell him he had better watch his back.   I won’t use poison."   He took a step back, then thrust his head into the window.   "And stay the fuck away from my house and my stuff.   I know you guys took my trash last week.   Try another trick like that and someone could get hurt."   

I had no idea what he was talking about, but looking at the hands that rested on the pillar of my windshield I could envision them around a neck, my neck, squeezing, squeezing, and I didn’t press the point.    Dumbly I nodded.   The man held my gaze for a full five seconds before pushing himself away from the car.   I slid the gearshift into drive and headed off down the street.   Before I turned the corner I glanced into the rear view mirror and saw him standing in the road looking after me.   The splash of red across his loins disappeared from the glass as I swung the wheel to the left.   

I pointed the car in the direction of the city and drove automatically.   I was angry.   Angry with myself more than with the man I had just left.   I should have known better, should have planned the meeting, what I was going to say, prepared myself for the several possible directions the encounter could have taken.    Instead I had winged it and had come out like a first year student who had spent the weekend drinking and came into class unprepared on Monday morning.   And just like that student, I’d been humiliated.   For about fifteen minutes I drove toward the city in this embarrassed state until my cell phone rang.   Jerked back to reality I grabbed it off my belt.   I hadn’t been expecting a call and the ringing alarmed me.   What time was it in England?   About six in the evening.   God, maybe Chris had got himself run over by a steam engine, my mind suggested in momentary panic, but a glance at the screen showed it was a local call and not from across the waters.   

"Mr. Jorgensen?"   

"Yes.   Who is this?"   

"This is Jim Spizziri."   He paused, and when I said nothing, continued, "You were just at my house."   

"Uh-huh," I replied warily.   

"Look.   Maybe I over reacted just now."   Another pause.   "I’m sorry."   

"It’s OK."   

There was silence on the other end.   "Hello?"   I queried.   

"Yeah, I’m here.   Look, I really am sorry about how I behaved just now."   

"You said that," I said, still not sure what he was getting at.   Yet something in his tone made me think that his apology might be genuine, and I dropped my attitude.   "I guess it’s been hard times for you."   

"Look," he said as though he hadn’t heard me, "if you want to come back and talk it’ll be OK.   Don’t get excited — I still think that Hillman did it, and I still think he’s a piece of shit.   But you were right:  if he didn’t do it, I want to know who did.   There’s only one thing I’ll ask from you in return.   Twenty-four hours.   That’s all I need.   Twenty four hours before you tell the police."   

Oh, God, where do people get their ideas of how lawyers work?   "I can’t do that.   If it is someone else I can work to finding out who, but once I have any evidence I shall be compelled to hand it over to the district attorney."   

There was a pause.   "We’ll see.   I’m a resourceful guy."   There was silence.   "So you going to come back?"   

I was wary.   Why the sudden change of attitude?   "I’m not sure that would be a good idea."   

"Oh, shit.   Look, I said I was sorry."   

"Uh-huh.   You did."   

"You eat hamburgers?"   

Is this guy on crack, I wondered.   "Yeah," I said.   I pulled off from the light and swung into a gas station:   the conversation was becoming too surreal for me to continue driving while having it.   

"Just wondered.   Thought you might be vegetarian."   

"Why?   Because I don’t want to aid you in embarking on a private vendetta you think I don’t eat meat?"   

His tone lightened.   "It was a possibility."   

"No.   I’m not a vegetarian."   

"Well, I can get some coals going now and by the time you get back here they’ll be ready to grill.   Then you can tell me what you came by to say."   

Curiosity began to overcome my wariness.   "OK.   That sounds good.   I could do with some lunch," I said.   

"See you then."   The phone went dead.   

I took a deep breath and swung out into the road headed back the way I came.   But just before turning into Wylly Avenue I pulled up and left a message on Don’s voicemail as to where I was going.   One needed to cover oneself.   

As I drew up outside his house the man came walking down the driveway.   The red shorts had been replaced by dry black ones and the muscled abdomen was covered with a white tank top.   

"So let’s start this from the beginning again," he said, holding out his hand as I got out and locked the Audi.   "Hi, I’m Jim Spizziri.   Most folk call me Spizz."   

"Hi, Spizz.   I’m Mike Jorgensen."   

"Hi, Mike."   He looked me over in a glance and said, "Well what are we waiting for.   It’s hot out here.    Let’s go and get ourselves a beer."   

Standing next to the grill, the condensation from a cold bottle of Four Peaks IPA dripping over my fingers, I watched my host expertly flip the burgers over the coals.   Conversation as he cooked was limited to small talk about Savannah, Spizziri asking where I lived and where I worked.   He seemed a nice enough guy, smart and educated, and his hospitality appeared genuine, but I remained wary, aware of the muscles and lithe tendons that changed with every movement.   Once the meat was on the buns, however, and I’d accepted some of his family’s home-preserved peppers and a second bottle of beer, he came straight to the point.   

"So, Mike, cut to the chase, buddy.   You said there was something about that ass-hole changing his plea that worried you."   He bit into his burger.   

"Well, yes and no.   Actually I’ve really had nothing to do with the case.   A friend of mine who works in the same firm was Hillman’s defense, and he was the one that got suspicious.   It wasn’t that Hillman changed his plea — shit knows, with the evidence the DA had, Hugh (that’s my colleague) had recommended that Hillman accept whatever the DA was offering."   

"Your buddy not a fighter?"   

"No.   He’s good.   But you never know with a jury.   In spite of what the judge tells them, they get influenced by the damndest things."   I took a bite of hamburger and my tongue exploded in a sheet of pain that shot up into my nasal passages, shutting them down so I had difficulty inhaling.   "Holy shit!"   I choked as I hurriedly tried to pour enough ale into my mouth to quench the fire that had engulfed it.    "Jeezus, Spizz, these peppers are hot!"   I gasped, wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my arm.   

My host sat there grinning at my discomfort.   "Bird peppers.   My brother grows them himself in back of his house down Austin way," he said as though that somehow explained the damage that about 50 thousand Scoville units were wreaking on my throat.   "This is a good batch.   

"Here, take another brew."   

"Thanks," I finally managed to gasp.   "They are good.   I shouldn’t have taken such a big piece."   I took a knife and spread the peppers a bit more evenly over the meat.   I began to better comprehend the game that was being played:  I was being put through some kind of initiation, a test by which my host could gauge my mettle.   OK.   If that were the case I could play along.   The next bite was better and my seared taste buds could appreciate the slightly smoky flavor that came through the spiciness.   

"So your colleague didn’t want the bastard to face a jury?   That should tell you something.   Or was that some kind of lawyer trick to get the money without doing the work?"   He gave a brief smile and again bit into his burger, the well-defined facial muscles pulsing as he chewed.   

"Well…he was faced with rather unbalanced odds," I said, ignoring the remark.   "At the start he had a client who was apparently very insistent that he could get evidence that would acquit him; Later, when given the chance to produce it, his client couldn’t — or wouldn’t; and the evidence the DA had was pretty compelling.   

"Given all that, and since the deal being offered was fairly light considering the circumstances, taking the plea seemed to be in his client’s best interests."   I took a mouthful of my burger.   The hot peppers were, indeed, good.   

"How did you know what evidence the State had?"   Spizz asked.   

"They have to disclose it."   

"Geez, you lawyers have it easy.   Imagine if every time we had to go into battle the enemy had to tell us what his plans were?"   

"Seems to me it’d be a good idea.   Probably save a lot of lives."   

"Yeah.   Right.   And maybe every Marine would then live on the coast and drive around in a fancy car, too."   

"Spizz, do you know what the legal term ‘stipulation’ is?"   

"No."   

"It’s when both sides of a dispute agree on certain procedural matters.   It saves time and money and enables the lawyers to get to the meat of the case without getting bogged down with trivial stuff."   

"OK."   

"Good.   So let you and I stipulate that we both know there are bad lawyers and there are good lawyers, and that there are dumb Marines and there are smart Marines.   So you lay off the lawyer cracks and I’ll stay clear of any Jarhead jibes."   

He looked at me for a second and a smile broadened on his face.   "Deal.   Sorry."   

"Whatever Hugh’s, my colleague’s, advice was, the client didn’t have to take it.   He could have instructed Hugh to continue preparing the case and go to trial.   If he didn’t like the way Hugh was proceeding, he could have requested another attorney.   But he chose to take the plea bargain."   

"So what’s got you all beaded up?"   Spizz asked.   "Why not say ‘Cool, Dude!   I’ve done my job,’ and walk away?"   

"Because if the legal system is to work, it has to work the whole time.   We can’t have people being pinch hitters for someone else — even when they volunteer for it."   I lifted the last piece of burger off my plate, but paused before popping it into my mouth.   "At least that’s what’s driving Hugh.   I don’t really know what’s driving me besides an obsession to know."   

"Because...?"   

I sighed, realizing that this foraging for details of evidence outside of the confines and precepts of the legal system was a novel course of action for me, alien to all my training, even.   I considered this while I chewed, then found myself smiling sheepishly at my lunch companion as though I felt a need to explain.   "My partner goes half ape if he can’t figure out the reason for some