Harry is at his desk working on a motion in a civil case, trying to save a client from bankruptcy. It is a small manufacturer in San Diego, a third-generation company that employs thirty-two people. For almost fifty years Hammond Ltd. has made custom hunting rifles-elephant guns, for want of a better term. These are rare big-bore double-barreled rifles, pieces of art engraved and tooled, some of them inlaid with precious metals by skilled artisans who mastered their craft in Europe.

Hammond's cheapest rifle runs twelve grand, with models ranging up to eighty-five thousand dollars. They are not your average Sat.u.r.day-night special. Only a fool would fire one. They are collectors' pieces out of the box, works of art, fashioned to be polished and displayed in cases on a wall against a background of green felt like a finely crafted clock.

Despite this, the company has been caught up in a cla.s.s-action lawsuit inspired by politicians mining for antigun votes. The high priests of polling have told them that with just a little more flailing, the hysteria among soccer moms will put women on the liberal plantation permanently. It is now easy to believe that there are politicians who go to bed each night praying for just one more good school shooting to put them over the top.

Harry is no lover of guns or those who make them. He is an old-line Democrat, a believer in the workingman and the underdog. He has never cared much for the tyranny of any majority, whether silent or otherwise. And when it is coupled with a scent of hypocrisy, it tends to get his attention.

He has taken a loser of a case and is now financing it out of our pocket. The price you pay for Harry as a partner is his tilting at a few windmills. It's well worth the cost.

Twenty states and an equal number of munic.i.p.alities have now joined the feds in the firearms litigation. A score of small companies around the country whose guns have never been used in a crime are now being driven out of business by the cost of government litigation.

Harry puts his pencil down. "I think maybe I should come with you," he says. He is looking up from the pile of papers spread on the desk in front of him.

I have a meeting with the prosecutor in the Crone case. We may be in trial, but Harry smells an offer in the making.

"Even if they do make it," I tell him, "you'll never sell it to Crone. He won't cop a plea to anything. Besides, are you sure you can take the time?"

"I'll make the time." He turns off the lamp on his desk and grabs his coat.

"You know he could do worse than voluntary manslaughter," says Harry.

"Tannery wasn't saying much on the phone," I tell him. "Only that it would be worth my while to come over and talk." Tannery called this morning out of the blue and invited me to his office, said it would be wise if we had a conversation before things went any further. You could read anything into that. Harry is ever the optimist.

I remind him that Crone has already turned down even the hint of such a deal.

"That was before he saw some of the evidence play out," says Harry.

"He didn't seem particularly rattled by Hodges and her revelations."

"They're just getting warmed up," says Harry. "I can smell it. I've got a bad feeling on this one."

"Like what?"

"Like there's a lot we haven't been told by our own client."

Tannery had dangled a deal before the trial opened, though it was never formally offered. He hinted at a single count of voluntary manslaughter on condition that Crone could provide credible evidence that the murder was committed in sudden rage or heat of pa.s.sion. He said he would have to sell it to his boss. At the time, he was not able to do that. Crone exploded when I ran even the hint of an offer by him. Harry tried a hard sell. It ended up with Crone questioning Harry's manhood and his willingness to go to trial. Since then, relations have not been smooth between the two of them.

"If they actually make the offer," says Harry, "I hope this time you'll lay heavy hands on him. Last time, as I recall, you did a lot of listening while I got my b.u.t.t kicked around the cell."

"I told him the risks. That he could do life if convicted. What more can I say?"

"You might remind him they don't do a lot of genetics research at the infirmary up in Folsom. Not on any life forms he'd recognize, anyway. The man may be a Phi Beta Kappa, but he's not too bright," says Harry. "With voluntary man, he could be out in six years, maybe less."

"I don't think he'll budge."

"Why not?"

"Maybe he didn't do it."

"Then there'll be one more innocent lifer in the joint," says Harry. "Whether you think he did it or not, we'd be remiss not to tell him the facts. His chances in front of that jury are not good. The demographics are all wrong. We tried for college-educated and missed." Harry is right. We have three secretaries and a receptionist, a lineman for the electric company who probably wants to know why the state's not using "Old Sparky" to do our client. The jury foreman never finished high school and probably thinks a geneticist is somebody who performs genocide. These are people who are likely to be more confused than dazzled by Crone's credentials.

"I've looked at their faces, studied their eyes while you were cross-examining witnesses," says Harry. "Screw the evidence. They're ready to convict Crone based on first-degree arrogance."

We head for the door, Harry right behind me. "I've got a bad feeling about this one." He says it again like he's scratching an itch he can't quite reach, not exactly sure why, but to Harry something is out of place.

It takes us twenty minutes to bounce over the bridge in my Jeep. With the window panels pulled open, the wind keeps me from hearing Harry's homilies all the way to Tannery's office near the courthouse. We park in one of the lots behind the building and enter through the courthouse. We take the escalator and cross over to the D.A.'s office on the fourth-story bridge. Tannery's office is upstairs, executive heaven where the floors are carpeted, s.p.a.ce is abundant and the desks and chairs are mahogany. Evan Tannery is on his way to becoming chief deputy, in charge of all felonies. He has been dubbed successor-in-waiting and groomed by Dan Edelstein, the outgoing chief who is scheduled to retire in September. For this reason, the Crone case is taking on added visibility in terms of Tannery's career, at least within the inner sanctum of the office. Everybody is watching to see if he drops the ball. Harry thinks this is why Evan may be anxious to deal on the case. Why take chances when you can get a guarantee?

We wait in the outer office, a vast reception area with two flat desks the size of aircraft carriers in opposite corners. A secretary behind each guards her boss's office door like a Roman sentry. Behind one of these, in the large corner office, sits the big kahuna, Jim Tate. Tate has been D.A. in this county since before G.o.d chiseled the Ten Commandments in stone with a hot finger and gave them to Moses. Tate will tell those willing to listen that he was master of ceremonies for the event. A bl.u.s.tery Irishman with a shocking bush of white hair and a ruddy complexion, Tate spends more time on his boat fishing and on the links playing golf than he does in his office. If they sublet the place, Tate would be last to notice. No one can remember the last time he tried a case. But he is a fixture among the county's political set. His name shows up at the top of everybody's list of the usual endorsers when elections roll around.

For all intents the office is run by Tate's number two, his chief deputy for the last twenty years, Daniel Edelstein. Stein, as he is called by those who know him (Edsel by those who don't like him), is a steely-eyed survivor of the bureaucracy. He is a man who doesn't say much at meetings. Instead, he watches the ebb and flow and has a keen knack of always ending up on the winning side of any controversy. He is a master of the subtle illusion of influence. Everybody in town wants his ear, even if one often senses that speaking into it has the same effect as talking to a brick. Anyone seeking success in the prosecutor's office can never stand too close to Edelstein.

At the moment, Tannery is right in his shadow. In fact, I am surprised when the two men come out of Edelstein's office together. We get the once-over from Stein, who smiles the kind of simpering grin that tells me we and our case have been the subject of recent conversation. Tannery peels off and comes our way.

"Mr. Madriani . . ."

"Make it Paul," I tell him. "And you know Harry Hinds."

"Oh, sure." They shake hands. He is a felicitous soul, particularly for a prosecutor. Tannery doesn't seem to bear grudges or take himself too seriously, a rare quality for someone in his position.

"I think it is important that we have this conversation," he says. "In order to clear the air, before we go too much further."

"Trust you'll make it worth our while." Harry's smiling, as much as to suggest that Tannery owes us something for crossing town and meeting on his turf.

The D.A. smiles but doesn't reply. We follow him out of the reception area and down the wide corridor outside, away from the bank of elevators. He stops at a set of double doors just a little way away and works a key from his pocket in a shiny lock that looks as if it's just been fitted in the door.

"One of the conference rooms," he says. "They put me in here until Dan, Mr. Edelstein, clears his office."

Inside is a large conference table that Tannery has turned into a desk-c.u.m-storage-area. On one end is his office computer, and a large desk blotter and telephone that he has commandeered from a side table against the wall. On the other is a stack of cardboard boxes filled with mementos, files and books, stuff from his old cubicle downstairs. The conference chairs have been bunched up around the middle of the long table. Harry and I sit on this side while Tannery goes around, stepping over the telephone cord, to the far side. There's another stack of boxes, three in all, against the wall. He fishes in one of these and comes up with a black-covered three-ring binder. I recognize this as one of state's trial binders from the case. He sits at the table opposite us and opens it and studies the contents for a moment, then raises his eyes.

"We talked about reduction of the charges some time ago."

"Manslaughter," says Harry. "One count, voluntary man."

"That's right."

I nod but don't say anything.

"It would have been a good resolution of the case; at least I felt at the time that it might have been a fair disposition," says Tannery.

"Our client is a hard sell," says Harry.

"Yes. My boss is that way, too. He wasn't happy, but he allowed me to inquire. Since then, however, things may have changed."

I can feel the breath go out of Harry.

"In what way?" I ask.

"Information that we are now investigating. Which may come to nothing, but if it pans out there will be no further offer of settlement. In fact, we may have severly undercharged the case in light of this information."

"What kind of information?"

"We're not at liberty to disclose right now," he says. "Not until we've had an opportunity to check it out more thoroughly. But if it's accurate, there's a side to this case that none of us may have been aware of."

"What are you talking about? If you have evidence, you've got to disclose," says Harry. "There's court policy, standing order in this county. If you have relevant information, any evidence, you have to turn it over."

"It may not be relevant," says Tannery. "In which case you would accuse us of sending you off on some wild-goose chase to waste your time in the midst of trial. That's why we intend to check it out first. If there's anything to it, we'll get it to you immediately."

"I see," says Harry. "Right before we open our case in chief." Harry is afraid Tannery will blindside us just before we put on our first witness, leaving us no time to prepare.

"I'm telling you now so that this does not come as a complete surprise later."

"Telling us what?" I ask him.

"That you should be prepared for the possibility of a new element in the case."

"Is this further incriminating evidence?" I ask him. We are now playing lawyers' dozen.

"Could be. Goes more to the theory of the case," says Tannery.

"It's not doc.u.ments?" Harry's thinking the same thing I am. The cops have found the papers Crone claims Kalista Jordan took from his office.

"You're thinking something specific?" Tannery is now fishing.

"Is it doc.u.ments?"

"No."

I could try to get an order from the judge to compel Tannery to turn over whatever he has. It would take me a day, maybe two. By then the cops would no doubt have checked it out. If it's damaging, they will drop it on us, and the motion or the order would be moot. If whatever Tannery has doesn't pan out, the entire matter is irrelevant. Tannery would simply have made our blood pressure rise for a couple of days.

Harry will want to go back to the jail and rack Crone, to find out what it is he hasn't told us this time.

"When did you discover this information?" I ask him.

"Friday."

"This last Friday?"

"That's right."

"Little late in the game, isn't it?"

"We had no way of discovering this. Witness came to us. Out of the blue," he says.

"A new witness? Someone not on your witness list?"

He nods.

"We'll probably object to your putting whoever it is on."

"We'll have to thrash that out in court," he says.

"How credible is this witness?"

He makes a face, shopkeeper a.s.sessing the value of goods, looking at the binder propped up against his chest so that I can't see it. "One of the things we have to check out," he says. "But we do know that the witness was in a position to know some of the details that have been given to us. It should not take long to obtain confirmation. I feel bad about this," says Tannery.

"You should," says Harry.

"No, I mean it. You guys have been straight shooters," he says. "I really did want to do a deal. Thought we could. I did believe that it was an impulsive act. That your guy got in over his head, lost his temper. Workplace rage," he says. "It does happen. I mean even with the mutilation. We don't usually make an offer in such a case. You know the public sentiment," he says.

"That was all done after she was dead," says Harry.

"Soon after," says Tannery. "We know that. All part of a single act."

"So what are you saying?" I ask.

"What I'm saying is that if this information proves out, it could still be a crime involving a good deal of rage. But perhaps with a different motive."

Harry and I are looking at each other, totally lost.

"What? The motive is less socially acceptable?" asks Harry.

"I think I've said all I can for the moment."

Tannery is still studying the binder in front of him. I am wondering if he's run into some stone wall, so that he is trying to reinvent his case, coming up with a new theory as to why Crone was angry with Kalista Jordan.

"We are not prepared to wait for long," I tell him. "I am compelled to tell the court about our conversation here today."

"I understand," says Tannery. "We've already taken steps to do that." He opens the binder in front of him, pulls out a single sheet of paper, letter sized, and hands it to me. "You'll be getting a copy of this in the mail for your files."

It is a letter to the trial judge advising that the state has exercised due diligence in discovering new evidence, that they have notified the defense of the nature, but not the details, of this information until the D.A. can a.s.sess its accuracy and relevance. Tannery has headed me off. It would be difficult to complain to the court when a disclosure has been made, even if it is only a partial one. His letter removes a lot of the wind from our sails were we to file a motion arguing that we've been sandbagged. Tannery is covering all his bases.

chapter.

three.

through years of practice in Capital City I had come to observe the disparate forms of evidence in criminal cases, everything from scholarly court lectures by experts to furtive undercover videos of politicians lapping up bribes while making crude jokes about "servicing the people."