Chapter 1

Clyde wrapped her arms around her weeping friend. Mira mumbled something about “Ike.” Then they stood there without saying a word. They stood for a long time, while Clyde’s thoughts wandered from worry to worry, then from sorrow to sorrow, then from anger to anger. 

She worried about her friends, because she had brought Baedes’s suspicions down upon them. She worried about Mira, because Baedes thought Mira was at the center of a conspiracy against him. She worried about herself, because she didn’t want to get caught. And she worried, because she knew that if she ever wanted to turn herself in, the easiest way would be simply to tell her beloved, her own husband. And after Ted got over his rage at what she had done, and called the feds to take her away at gunpoint, he would represent her and defend her in court, with a passion borne out of love. But she worried, most of all, because all the clever legal defenses in the world could not repair the damage this will have done to their relationship. 

She sorrowed at how powerless she was, and how helpless. She knew she had acted with the best of intentions. But intentions didn’t mean a thing if all she accomplished was to bring pain upon those she loved. She sorrowed for Mira and for her pain. She sorrowed that she could do nothing to help, because Mira felt a longing of the heart, which could only be solved by Mira’s heart itself. She sorrowed for Hashim Osama and his family, innocents caught in the crossfire of an ugly political battle. Who said politics was only about words? Words have consequences.

And was that her fault? What had she ever done to Hashim, or to Jane, or to Mira? Clyde knew three things about being abused, and the first was that the victim blames herself for the abuse, even though it’s the abuser’s fault. And Clyde was not the one toting a gun, waving it in people’s faces, disrupting the lives of innocent families, or hurting her friends. 

In her mind, Clyde heard the words, “See what you made me do?” They sounded as loudly as if they had been spoken. 

Rage began to boil in Clyde’s heart, because she had only fought an evil. Her attacker’s free choice made him hurt her. She had no obligation to feel anything but hate and revulsion for him. It was not her fault, and it was wrong for him to blame her for any of this.

Clyde was pissed at Mira, too. Because Mira had lost sight of the prize. Not only did Mira blame herself, she was letting her feelings compromise her judgment. Clyde wanted to snap Mira out of it. 

“Hey, you!” Clyde barked. The words did not come out tenderly and sweet, as they did when Clydene said them. 

Mira had stopped crying, but was still resting her head on Clyde’s shoulder, like a little girl cuddling up to her mother. Now, Mira looked up, and Clyde could see fear in her eyes. 

Clyde softened her voice and tried again. “Hey, you.” Then as she stared into Mira’s sad, puppy-dog eyes, she forgot what she was mad about. 

“Come in and sit down,” Clyde said. 

---

A man stood in the doorway of his townhouse. He seemed to be observing the crowd of children gathering in the lot. In reality there was only one child he was interested in, the 12-year-old boy sitting on the stair of the neighbor’s apartment. The man, whose name was Damian, noticed that the boy too was only watching the commotion. But Damian kept an eye on him nonetheless to make sure he didn’t get too close. 

The children crowded in as though they were the electrons of a giant atom, their autumn coats pressing in on each other as they shifted in and out, back and forth, up and down, around a central nucleus, each one straining to see what was happening inside. Occasionally, a catcall or a collective cheer interrupted the din, but mostly they made a steady noise of indistinct voices. It looked like just a assembly of middle school students getting ready for a neighborhood, after-school ball game. But if you were paying attention, you could tell that the gathering was more serious. Too many kids. Too loud a din. Too focused on the action at the nucleus of the atom. 

Someone must have been paying attention, because the disturbance lasted only a few minutes. A new kid joined the crowd. Then, suddenly, a girl broke free from the mass of bodies and shot out across the parking lot, like a subatomic particle escaping the atom’s nucleus. The rest of the atom immediately split, one half toward Summer Street, the other toward Lyman Avenue. Three seconds later, police officers swooped down upon the scene. 

The blonde policewoman, tall and athletic, navy jacket and pants, with a black leather belt and an official-looking insignia on her badge, hair tightly wrapped in a bun, approached the 12-year-old boy and two of his friends, who were now standing and talking. Damian stood back, but strained to hear the conversation between her and the boys. The 12-year-old boy motioned in Damian’s direction, and the policewoman glanced over. That was more than he could take. He stepped down from his perch and ambled toward the boys and their interlocutor. The cold air bit at his hands, but he dared not warm them in his pockets, because he preferred to leave them in plain sight.

As he approached, Damian heard part of the conversation. 

“I know one,” the 12-year-old boy said with a thick, Hispanic accent. “Her name is Kay. She ran over there.” The boy pointed in the direction the girl had run. 

“Is that what all of you saw?” 

One of the other kids said, “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t see much. We just got here. But I saw Kay running away.” 

She turned to Damian. “And you were over there?” She pointed to their apartment. 

“Yes.” Damian spoke perfect, American English. “I was primarily watching my son there”—he indicated the 12-year-old boy—“you know, to make sure he wasn’t involved in it.” 

“Okay.” She asked the boy, “Do you know where this girl lives?” 

He paused. 

Damian gave him the “Yes, it’s okay” look and nodded slightly. 

“Yeah. I think she went home.” 

“Which apartment does she live in?” 

“She lives down there.” The boy pointed down the street. 

“Do you know what number?” 

“Uh. I think it’s… next to the corner, not Summer Street, on the next street.” 

“Can you show me?” 

“Yeah.” 

Another cop approached. 

“Hold on a second,” the policewoman said, and she had a quick conversation with the other cop. Damian couldn’t hear any of what they said, until she said, “No. They’re witnesses. He’s a witness,” indicating the boy; “he’s a witness,” indicating Damian. “But they were about to…” and her voice trailed off again.

When she was done talking to the other cop, she said, “Okay. You can show me where she lives now.” 

Damian accompanied the 12-year-old boy as they showed the cop where Kay lived. Kay was one of those unfortunate kids whose father didn’t live with her and whose mother didn’t care about her. She was about 12, like Damian’s boy. The two children went to the same school. She and her friends had been known to pick on the younger kids, and police reports had been filed by several parents. Kay also made up her face and dressed like a hooker, even at the age of 12. It was well known in the neighborhood that she slept around. Once, she was even caught having sex in a public place with a young, teenage boy. Damian and his wife had forbidden their kids from hanging around with Kay or with any of her friends. 

While they were walking, the policewoman got a call on her walkie-talkie. She took it, then she said to Damian, “You go ahead I’ll catch up.” 

They did, and once they were out of earshot, Damian asked the boy, “How are you doing?” 

“Okay. I don’t think Kay wanted to fight. She was being bullied by some other kids.” 

“Serves her right,” Damian said. 

“She’s not as bad a kid as you think she is.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” 

---

Clydene was honestly looking forward to meeting Jane for lunch, because Jane was the only person in the world she could talk openly with. Over the past week, Clyde had been receiving ongoing, automated reports from the Pyx virus on Baedes’s unofficial files, as well as official files, emails, and other files. At first, Clyde didn’t believe how much junk email was shuffled around the Abe’s Turn governmental network. But then she remembered that it was essentially like any big corporation. Clyde desired to talk to someone about what she was doing. She wanted to mull it over with another human being. Normally, she would talk with Mira, but in this case Mira could not know, because knowing that Baedes was on the warpath would devastate Mira. So Clydene looked forward to her lunch with Jane, the only person who knew about Pyx.

Clyde arrived at the restaurant early. She had driven all the way out to Stafford Springs so that no one would recognize her, though she didn’t know why, or at least couldn’t put it into words. And she chose a restaurant that served real food that she could palate. Having parked her blue Camry, she stood at the entrance and squinted out across the lot. Even though the sun was still bright, the air was beginning to get colder, a gentle reminder that it was no longer Summer. Occasionally, a chill breeze blew her fiery red hair into her eyes. She brushed it back with her hand. And whenever a passerby entered the restaurant, she caught a whiff of garlic and fresh Italian bread from inside. Finally, Clyde noticed Jane, with genuine happiness at the sight of her. 

Inside, a waitress led them to a nondescript booth somewhere within the maze of tables. The overhead speakers resonated with a classic soft-rock love song. At a nearby table a good-looking young man and woman ate ravioli from the same plate while they made goo-goo eyes at each other. Clyde sighed. She would always be a romantic at heart. 

“Remember that?” Jane asked, nudging her eyes in their direction. 

“Romance? Yeah, I guess so,” Clyde said. “I don’t know. Being married is different, but I wouldn’t say being single was any better.” All Clydene could remember about her life before Ted was the loneliness and the mood swings.

“You don’t have kids.” 

“No.” 

“Children change everything.” Jane gazed longingly at the lovebirds. “I remember that, but I don’t remember the last time I looked at Marvin like that.” 

Clyde suddenly realized she was staring at the lovebirds, and she snapped her head back. The lovebirds didn’t seem to notice either way. 

Jane continued. “They become your whole life.” Her voice became serious. “This is kind of heavy, isn’t it?” 

“A little,” Clyde said. 

“Guess what happened at work? They scheduled me to work tomorrow afternoon, and I have to be home to pick up the boys from the bus after school. That’s the way it is every day. They don’t seem to get it.” 

“So what are you going to do?” 

“I told them I had to leave at 2, no matter what the schedule said,” Jane stated matter-of-factly. “They can fire me if they want, but you have to have your priorities straight.” 

“Couldn’t you leave them with someone for a few hours until you got back? Maybe a neighbor—“ The words left Clydene’s mouth before she could stop them. “Uh, I mean… Uh…“ 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” In some ways, Jane was a thick-skinned broad. “But if I was going to leave them with someone else so I could work, I might as well let someone else raise them. Because that’s what I’d be doing anyways.” 

“I can understand that.” Clyde did understand, even though she didn’t have children of her own. Her own submerged maternal instinct peeked out occasionally from within her. She and Ted had no kids not because they didn’t want kids. It just never seemed to be the right time. For a moment, Clyde realized that her biological clock was ticking away, and she felt just a little bit empty and a little bit envious of Jane.

“I’d love to have a job like yours,” Jane said. “Work at home. I could have the kids home with me and earn money at the same time.” 

“Yeah, but you’d have the same problem.” Clyde thought of all the times she had neglected Ted because she was working on a project. “You’d have to set aside time for them, or you’d end up ignoring them.” 

“We should probably figure out what we want to eat.” Jane picked up a menu. “I’ve never been here before. What’s good on the menu?” 

“The rosemary chicken luncheon special looks good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. With a glass of the house Pinot Grigio.” 

“A glass of what?” 

Clyde looked up over the top of her menu at Jane’s face. “White wine.” 

“Oh.” Jane returned to her menu. 

“Sorry about that,” Clyde said. “One of my hobbies is gourmet cooking. And part of that is being a wine snob.” 

Clyde returned to her menu. She was eying the shrimp primavera, but the talk about rosemary chicken made her want that, too. 

“Fatima is probably back in Pakistan by now,” Jane said apropos of nothing. 

Clyde knew, there was no “probably” about it. 

Jane continued. “What can we do to help?” 

Clyde set down her menu. Jane was staring across the table at her. “To help Fatima?” 

“To stop this kind of thing from happening again.” Jane whispered. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared.” 

“Why? You’re not Pakistani?” 

“Yeah, but they were really sweet people. They never hurt anyone else. And they— If it could happen to them, it could happen to any of us. I don’t want my kids to go through that.”

“This is true,” Clyde said. 

“So just let me know. I know you follow that whole thing.” 

Clydene’s mind suddenly went blank. She had come prepared to chat about Baedes, longing to talk about it, and now that Jane had brought up the subject, Clyde didn’t have any practical answers. 

“Who do you like for town council?” Jane asked, before Clyde could formulate a response. 

“Me?” Clyde said. “I’m not voting for any of them.” 

---

Michael ushered his guest down the green wall of the office cube farm. Other walls were blue, orange, yellow, and other colors, each colored wall identifying a known location in the otherwise indistinguishable maze of cubicles. Ergonomically calibrated artificial light beamed down from the high ceiling. All around them, computer keyboards clacked, and subdued voices melded in an indecipherable drone. 

Michael loved the hustle and bustle of office life. It felt a little like being at a party, and he loved parties. He loved meeting people, being around people, talking to people. And he loved showing off to his friends and acquaintances. 

Michael and his visitor stopped to examine one of the posters placarding the green wall. 

“Yeah, I’m really proud of this one. This ad out-pulled our previous control by 70 percent!” Michael said. His baby blues beamed like little flashlights. 

“You should become a freelance consultant, my friend.” The visitor’s dark skin and eyes betrayed his Hispanic descent, but his voice rang with the educated tones of a confident, wealthy executive. As he grinned, tiny crow’s-feet appeared at his temples, and his smile lines deepened. Wearing a clean, white polo shirt, he belonged on the golf course, not as an honored guest being conducted through one of the biggest ad agencies in the city.

“No thanks,” Michael said. “Not everyone is cut out to be an entrepreneur— No offense.” 

“None taken.” 

“At heart, I’m one of those creative types who’d rather leave running the business to someone else. Besides, in an organization this size, I get to talk to lots of interesting people I’d never get to meet otherwise.” 

“Creative type? I thought you were the head of your department. A director?” 

“Yes, Creative Director. But that’s still a creative position. I manage the project, make sure it gets done right. But other people handle the business end of things. It’s like being a film director, as opposed to a producer, if that makes sense.” 

“Yes, it does.” The visitor nodded. 

“And speaking of producers, here’s my boss.” 

Another man approached, a nondescript, no-nonsense type with a fake smile. He wore a short, business-like haircut and a white, button-down shirt. 

Michael turned to him. “Paul, this is a friend of mine, Joaquin Alvarez, but we call him Jay. Jay, Paul Cr—“ 

Paul interrupted him. “It’s good to meet you.” He reached out and shook the visitor’s hand. Then he said to Michael, “I didn’t know you were having a meeting today.” 

“It’s nothing formal. I was just showing him around.” 

“Excuse me,” he said to the visitor, and took Michael off to the side. He whispered, “Is this a potential client?’ 

“Yes,” Michael whispered back. 

“Then you should have gone through me.” 

“Relax,” Michael said in his normal speaking voice. “I’m not going to reveal anything top-secret. Because you know, I’m too smart for that. And we’re just talking preliminary, informal. Nothing set in stone.”

“Why don’t I join you then?” The manager had also returned to his normal speaking voice. 

“Well…” Michael glanced back at Jay. “We had planned to meet— uh— sit down in my office, and I don’t know if there’s a conference room available.” 

“I’ll check the schedule.” He headed back to his cubicle. 

Michael returned to Jay, who was staring agape at Paul. 

“If you want to escape, now’s the time,” Michael said in a humorous, hushed tone. 

“Wow, you weren’t exaggerating, were you?” Jay said. 

“Well you weren’t surprised, were you?” 

“Hell, yes!” Jay checked himself and lowered his voice again. “I mean, it’s one thing to hear about— someone like that, another thing to experience him.” 

Michael chuckled. “Really, he’s harmless, though.” 

Jay faced Michael. “You know, you really could run your own business.” 

Michael sneered with the left half of his face. 

“Seriously,” Jay continued, “you’re good with people, and that’s the most important part of doing business. I mean, yes, there’s accounting and legal crap and plenty of paperwork. But you can hire people to take care of all that stuff, or take on a partner.” 

“Well, that’s nice of you to say,” Michael politely intoned. 

“And you wouldn’t have to deal with Señior Pointy-hair, anymore.” 

Michael chuckled again. “But I like Pointy-hair. Every ad needs a villain, and where do you think I get inspiration for my best ones? Besides which, it’s fun to poke him. He’s like the Pillsbury Doughboy, if the Pillsbury Doughboy were a crack addict.”

A pause. 

Michael took a breath. “That didn’t come out as funny as I thought it would.”

“No, I guess not,” Jay said. 

The boss returned and ushered them to an empty conference room. As they sat, Jay explained his situation, more for Paul’s benefit than for Michael’s, because Michael already knew most of the background. Jay and his brother owned and ran a home heating oil business, J&D Heating Oil, in the town of Abe’s Turn. That’s how he and Michael knew each other, because Michael also lived and had contacts in Abe’s Turn, and they had met at a local Chamber of Commerce event. 

“What I’m concerned about,” Jay said, “is this new competitor, World’s Best Heating. They recently started up in the area, and some of my customers are going with them, because they’re undercutting us. They must be losing money on the deal. Not unheard of, to dump lots of money in and undercut the competition, just to get established. They probably have mob investors backing the operation.” 

Paul chuckled. 

Jay continued. “Seriously, though, the owner of the company, Freddy Carrillo, his relatives have been associated with organized crime. I’m not worried about that, though. Mob bosses don’t open up one-horse home-heating outlets. 

“In any case, this is a critical time in our annual cycle. The weather is getting colder, and people are thinking about preparing for winter and about high heating costs. That makes them likely to switch to a lower-priced offer. And after they switch, it’s going to be that much harder to get them back later in the season, even if WBH raises its rates. 

“Personally, I wonder if they’re doing a bait and switch, luring new customers with rock-bottom prices, under-delivering on service, and then knowing that they’ll need to raise prices half-way through the winter. And probably will blame it on Iraq or something.” 

“So you need to undercut their prices,” Paul said.

“No,” Michael said. “He needs to come up with a winning offer that springboards off his unique abilities. I have a few ideas—“ 

“But if people care about price, you have to cut your price.” 

“But we can’t cut our prices,” Jay said. 

“You have to find a way—“ 

Michael interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You don’t have to compete on price. And you don’t want to. That’s the worst thing you could do.” 

Paul glared at him from across the table. 

Michael ignored him. “You have a list of your customers right?” 

“Yes,” Jay said. 

“Of course you do. Otherwise, how could you deliver their oil and bill them? You can put together a direct mail campaign. That’s relatively inexpensive. Talk about the relationship you’ve had with them and the reliable service you’ve given. 

“If they’re concerned about price, we can come up with creative offers that ease their fears, like a monthly plan.” 

“Yes, we already offer something like that. We distribute the cost of the winter season over the whole year.” 

“Exactly. We can market that as a way to manage winter heating costs. Or you could offer a guaranteed maximum price, a ceiling on the winter heating bills, even for those who didn’t lock in their rates last June. The price ceiling doesn’t even have to be low, just something to make customers feel better. 

“Better yet, offer a premium plan that includes free emergency deliveries, or other free heating services, like repairs to their furnace. It’s like being on retainer.” 

“That’s all well and good,” Paul said, “but—“ 

“Don’t stop me. I’m on a roll. 

“You can talk about how you never leave a loyal customer in the cold. Remember that guy you told me about? He lost his job, and you kept deliveries coming to his family all through the winter, even though he couldn’t pay at the time? And then you billed them over the next year?”

Jay nodded. 

“That’s one powerful story. You don’t even have to make any guarantees for a story like that to work. 

“And you don’t have to offer special deals to just anyone. You can make these offers only to your best and and most loyal customers, because you know they won’t take advantage of you. Besides which, you want to reward them, which will just increase their loyalty. Or maybe you could offer special guarantees to your most loyal customers. 

“And maybe to one or two new customers that they personally recommend.” Michael punctuated each word with a pointed finger. “That would be a good way to build your customer base. And use the revenue from the premium plans to pay for special introductory offers to new customers.”

Jay was grinning now. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Paul said. “We need to make sure we have the resources in the department.” 

“Let me put together a proposal, then,” Michael said, “and we’ll allocate the resources.” 

“But I don’t know if we can accept the liability for deals like that.” 

Jay was clearly confused. “What liability?” 

Michael interjected. “There’s no liability, Paul. He approves all the copy, and there’s an indemnity clause in the standard contract.” 

“That doesn’t always cover the bases.” 

“Besides which, we commonly do similar campaigns for other clients. This is no different.” 

“It’s different because I haven’t approved it yet,” Paul said. 

“Okay. So approve it!” Michael thought a moment. “What’s stopping you?” 

“I need to see more first.” 

“Fine, we’ll start on the campaign, but nothing goes to press without your approval.”

“That will do,” Paul eked out. 

Jay stared straight through Michael’s eyes. “Business issues,” he said. 

Michael chuckled at the thought that Jay was secretly trying to lure him away, right under his boss’s nose. 

Chapter 2

Seated at the office desk, Damian stared at the piles of papers before him. Yeah, Jay was a genius. Or rather, he had hired a genius to help them. Only a couple weeks ago, they were looking at one of the coldest financial winters since they got into the home heating business, all because an aggressive, new competitor started stealing their customers away. Now, thanks to a brilliant marketing campaign, not only were they no longer losing customers, they had more new customers than they could comfortably handle. 

Unfortunately, there was a downside. Jay was always out having business meetings now, making deals with local retail businesses, doing radio and television interviews. And this left Damian alone to pick up the slack, to run the office and make deliveries. They were already looking for part-time help. And Damian had agreed to interview a prospective employee. But there was no reason, he thought, he shouldn’t get a little paperwork done while he was waiting. He picked up a pile of delivery receipts and started entering them into the computer. 

He only got a few sheets into the stack when the office door jingled open and a large man entered. He wore his dark hair short, like an ex-marine. A slick, brown, leather jacket defined his broad shoulders. Underneath, he wore a dark shirt and slacks, and black shoes.

Damian rose to shake the man’s hand, stepped from behind the desk. “Hi. You must be Craig.” He reached out his hand. The man grabbed Damian’s hand and squeezed, hard. He crowded Damian and forced him back against the desk. Damian stared in horror, puzzled over what was happening, feared for his safety. 

“I ain’t Craig,” the man sneered at Damian. “I’m your enemy.” He released Damian’s hand, took a step back, began to saunter around the room. He picked up a small, plastic snow globe from the desk and examined it. Then with the other hand, he flipped open a manila file folder and turned his attention to the papers therein. The snow globe had been a gift from Damian’s eldest son. The papers were customer files. 

Damian rubbed his hand, still tender. “I think you really hurt my hand,” he said. 

The man slammed the snow globe down on the desk and snarled, “I can do more than that.” 

Damian stared at the snow globe. 

The man picked it up again and inspected it. “Is this special?” he asked. 

Damian nodded nervously. 

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked. 

Damian neither said nor did anything. 

The man continued. “I’m here on behalf o’ your new competition. Now, we try to be reasonable. We play nice. You know, fair competition. But you don’t give us a chance. You were here first. You have an unfair advantage. So you step in and undercut us, even before we can get started.” He looked questioningly at Damian. “You know what I mean?” 

“We charge more than you,” Damian replied. “And you stole our customers away first.” 

“What?” The man looked more angry than inquisitive. 

Damian repeated himself matter-of-factly. “You tried to undercut us, not the other way around.”

In response, the man wound up and pitched the globe across the room, hard and fast. It crashed into the wall with a loud thunk. Damian whipped around and saw it in three pieces, spilled on the floor. 

The man marched up to Damian, grabbed his shirt with one hand, and waved his other fist in his face. “You’re not getting it. I’m asking you nicely.” He dropped his fist, grinned haughtily, and shook his head. “You see, my boss, he’s a reasonable guy, not the sort that comes into a town and takes over. He knows how to share, just like everybody else in this town. But my boss, he don’t like to be bullied. So you got to learn how to share, too. Capisce?”

He paused a moment. “Besides, what you’re doing is illegal.” 

The accusation disturbed Damian, in his gut, put him on the defensive. “If you think we’re doing something wrong, why don’t you sue us? Why all the mob mentality?” 

“Because proper channels takes too long. It costs too much. Even if we win, we still lose.” 

He continued. “This is the only way. And we only warn you one time. Lighten up. Or else I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you stop… uh, throwin’ your weight around.” 

Damian wondered what kind of demented, twisted logic it took to embrace such a bizarre incongruity. He also wondered what made him think he could get away with it. But the man stood a foot taller than Damian, and Damian could see his muscles bulge even underneath the leather jacket. He sneered in Damian’s face and his fist was still clenched. And Damian had a bad, bad feeling about this. If this bully were to mess up Damian’s face, no one would bring him to justice. Because Damian knew he couldn’t go to the cops, because of his son. For a moment, Damian wondered if the man knew this as well. 

Then before Damian could work out what to do next, the man stood tall, nonchalantly brushed the wrinkles out of Damian’s shirt where he had ruffled it.

He said, “Think about it. Because next time I won’t be so nice.” 

And he left. 

---

Ted couldn’t believe it, once the news reached his desk. True, Jerry was only human, and humans made mistakes. And Ted had made mistakes of his own over the years, and some of those were doozies. But mistakes tend to backfire on you, and now was not the time for mistakes. Still, Ted knew that if he could breathe deeply for a few minutes and not think about Jerry or his blunder— 

Ted tried to unclench his teeth. Instead, he slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling the pens and pencils in his pen-and-pencil holder. Then he did relax his jaw. He took a deep breath. If he could distract himself for a few minutes, he knew he’d be able to think clearly afterward. 

 A knock sounded from the door, which opened to reveal a young man in a dark suit and red tie. A layer of sandy hair sat atop his head, and a pair of delicate glasses framed his brown eyes.

“It’s not a good time, Jerry,” Ted said. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jerry replied. “I still need to speak with you urgently.” 

“It’s not a good time, because I’ve already heard.” Ted was desperately trying to remain calm. 

“Oh.” Jerry stared off to the side for a moment, into the air. Then he took a few steps forward. “Don’t you want to debrief me?” 

Ted stood from his chair. He raised his voice. “Now are telling me how to do my job? Huh? Is that how it’s going to be? After you…“ Ted could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins, undiluted rage like a bomb ready to detonate, being held in check only by sheer force of will.

He slammed his fists on the desk again, and Jerry took a shocked step back. 

Ted closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I just need a few minutes to get my mind around this,” he intoned without opening his eyes. 

“Unfortunately, we have a meeting set up in an hour, and I think there’s more here to go over than we have time for.” 

“Are you kidding?” Ted was raising his voice again. “I think it’s all pretty cut and dry! You lose!” Ted stabbed at the air between them to enunciate his point. “You lose. I lose. We all fucking lose!”

Ted stepped out from behind his desk. “Damn it!” He shouted. “I trusted you. I stuck up for you. I put myself on the line for you. And this is how you repay me?” 

“It was a mistake,” Jerry said. 

“A mistake?! Is that all you can say? Do you have any idea how stupid a mistake that was?”

“I know exactly how silly it seems, but it’s still a very common contract provision.” 

“Do you think I care—“ 

“Most lawyers don’t even pay any attention to it, because it’s boilerplate.” 

“Wonderful! I could have hired anyone if I wanted fucking boilerplate! I could have hired a fucking legal secretary!” 

“This happened years ago, years before I made partner. I realize this is a youthful indiscretion. But it was youthful.”

“Indiscretion?! You think you got caught in bed with a married woman? That I could deal with!” Ted put his hands on either side of his head, clenched his teeth again, and writhed. “God!”

“Besides,” Jerry continued, “it does mean more business for us.”

Ted suddenly stopped. He stared at Jerry, mouth open. His voice quieted, but it sounded just as angry. And it increased in volume as he continued talking, louder and louder, until he was shouting again. “I don’t believe it. You have the unmitigated gall to come in here and try to defend yourself? As though your incompetence is just par for the course? And might even be good for us? What kind of a fucking screw-up are you?!” And then he screamed in disgust and fury.

Michael knocked at the door. “Excuse me. I don’t think you realize how far your voice carries.” 

Ted looked at his friend and suddenly felt very ashamed. But his face didn’t move a muscle. As a litigator, he knew how to reveal feelings that weren’t there and, more importantly, how to conceal feelings that were eating him alive— when he needed to. 

Michael turned to Jerry. “Hi, Jerry.” Michael smiled at him. “Good to see you again.” 

Jerry nodded a hello. 

“Can you give us a few minutes?” Michael asked. 

Jerry paused for a moment before he nodded again. “Sure,” he said. 

After he left, Michael closed the door. In one hand, he was carrying a paper bag. He reached into it and lifted out a can of cola, set it on the desk in front of Ted’s chair. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a sandwich. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s really bothering you?” Michael asked. 

Ted shook his head. “Young lawyers are so incompetent,” he said. Truthfully, he didn’t want to think about what had been bothering him. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Michael said. Out from the bag came another cola and a second sandwich. “I brought lunch, and you need food.” 

Ted nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right.” He walked around to his side of the desk, sat, and opened his sandwich just as Michael was taking a bite of his.

“I haven’t seen you like this in a long, long time, my friend.” Michael reclined in Ted’s guest chair. 

“I’m just tired. Stressed.” 

Michael nodded. “You want to hear about someone else’s problems for a change?” 

“I’d love to,” Ted said. 

“A client fired me today.” 

Ted stopped mid-bite and said, “Well, you probably had it coming.” 

“Seriously,” Michael said. “No joke. He fired me.” 

“What did you do to him?” 

“Made him a million dollars.” 

“That’s a joke, right?” Ted said. Sometimes he couldn’t tell. 

“No, I’m afraid not. I put together a campaign that is earning him a million dollars over the next year, and in gratitude, he fired me.” 

“I’m still waiting for the punchline.” 

“Get ready for a long wait,” Michael said, and he resumed chewing. 

Ted thought of his inability to help Hashim and his family, a memory still fresh in his mind. He knew Baedes must have threatened him, but he also knew that they could have fought Baedes and won. “Sometimes you can’t make people do what’s best for them,” he remarked. 

“True,” Michael said. “But that’s because their mind is somewhere else, not on what you have to offer. 

“But these guys, these clients, they came to me. I didn’t go to them. I didn’t have to convince them of anything. And I gave them exactly what they wanted. And they were ecstatic about it. Until this morning. Then, suddenly, I’m fired. They don’t even tell me personally. I get the news from my boss, Señor Pointy-hair, and you can imagine how enjoyable that was. Then they won’t answer their phones, won’t return my calls. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they dropped off the edge of the earth.”

“Hmm.” Ted asked himself what reason might have caused a happy business client to desert a consultant who was making him so much money, and how to find out which reason it actually was. He took another bite of his sandwich. 

Michael swigged his cola. “You know,” he said in a casual tone, “you need to apologize to Jerry.” 

“I know,” was Ted’s reply. 

---

Jane gave the only excuse she could think of. 

Her husband had caught up to her in the living room, while she was bending over the the coffee table, tidying it up. He sidled up behind her, patted her on the rear, and said, “Tomorrow’s your day off this week. Do you have any special plans?” 

Now she replied, simply, “No. Just housework and taking it easy.” 

That was a lie, of course. She had planned to meet Clydene Jackson again for lunch. Or maybe brunch. They had also kicked around the idea of going shopping. And Jane was looking forward to the get-together. But when asked about it, she knew she shouldn’t say anything. 

Clyde was involved in some pretty shady activities. And Jane supported her, because despite how nefarious her methods may have looked to an outsider, Clyde was one of the good guys. Jane felt a rapport with Clydene, because Clyde had sincerely tried to help Jane, even when they had hardly known each other. And now Jane’s grief had turned to anger, and Clyde was one of the only people in the world who could understand that anger. Perhaps she even felt it, too. And no matter what else, there was one thing Jane simply could not do. It was part of her innate being, a habit bred from the time she was very little. Jane could not betray a confidence. And this was a confidence. So Jane and Clyde’s relationship had to remain on the QT.

Now, when Marvin asked whether she had plans for her day off from work, she said what she needed to. She lied. 

“Let’s spend the day together,” he said. “I’ll take a vacation day, and we’ll do something, just the two of us. Like it was before the boys were born.” 

Jane was taken aback. She straightened up suddenly. “Uh, I don’t know if that would work.” 

“Are you kidding? Why in the world not?” 

“Well—“ Jane searched for an explanation. “You can’t just call in and say, ‘Hi. I’m taking a vacation.’ Don’t you have to tell them, like, two weeks ahead of time?” 

Marvin kissed her forehead. “It’s slow at work this week, dear. It’s the best time for me to take a day off.” 

“Okay,” Jane said, but she was secretly thinking that she would have to rearrange her schedule, sneak in a call to Clyde’s cellphone. 

“What?” asked Marvin. “Don’t you want to spend the day with me?” He must have detected something in her demeanor. 

“Uh, no, I’m good.” 

“So what’s with the funny look?” 

“Uh, I was just thinking about something else.” 

He paused a moment. “You had plans.” 

“No, no plans,” she said. 

“If you have plans, just say so.” 

“I don’t have any plans,” she insisted. She looked directly into his eyes and intoned, “I’m looking forward to it.” 

He searched her eyes as if digging for the truth. “Fine, then,” he said. “It’s a date.” 

But he didn’t go on to the next subject. Instead, he said, “Who did you have plans with?”

And that’s when the fight started. 

---

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows onto Clyde’s kitchen table. Seated under it, she opened up to a blank leaf in her notepad. At the top, she wrote the word, “Guests.” Then she listed the obvious: “Mira,” followed by “Michael.” Besides Ted and herself, that would be six people, assuming Mira and Michael each brought a plus-one. That meant, if they put the leaf in the dining-room table, they could invite two more couples, make it an even ten. 

Personally, Clyde doubted Mira would invite anyone, nor that she would want to. And Clyde knew that Mira would hate to be set up. So that left a spare place at the table, or an odd number. Clydene didn’t mind having an odd number. It was more important to her that her friends have a good time together at Thanksgiving. And that was what bugged her about Mira. Clyde had a feeling Mira was going to have a miserable, lonely time, no matter what anyone did. And that really sucked. 

So four, possibly five, open spots. Clyde knew at least one more person she wanted to invite. 

Ted had been watching television in the next room. Now, he entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. 

“Hey, Ted,” Clyde said. “Remember those people we met a few weeks ago out on Linden Street?” 

“You mean the Hashim family?” He pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator. 

“No, their neighbors, Marvin and Jane Mooney.” 

Ted considered for a moment, as he took a gulp of water. “Yes. I remember them.” 

“I’d like to invite them to Thanksgiving dinner.” 

Ted looked surprised. “Really? What makes you think they’d accept?”

“I don’t know that they would. Do you have any objection to my asking?” 

“No objections. Knock yourself out.” 

“We still have 2, possibly 3, spaces open. Do you have anyone you want to invite?” 

“Not particularly. I might know someone from the office.” 

“Okay.” 

“Or you could ask Michael. He always knows someone.” 

Michael did indeed know someone, several people, in fact, and he was very anxious to offer them these spots. He finally caught up with Jay and his brother Damian at the J&D corporate office, which consisted of a single room, paint peeling from the walls. As Michael entered, a bell jingled cheaply. His shoes clacked on the worn, wooden floor. Jay was sitting on, leaning against a cluttered desk near the opposite wall. Filing cabinets lined another wall. And Damian balanced himself on a ladder above a large-leafed plant in the corner, next to the room’s sole window, which looked out onto the street. Damian was fiddling with something on the ceiling, something that looked like a small security camera. 

Meanwhile, Clyde reached Jane on her cell phone. But when Clyde asked if it was a good time to talk, Jane hemmed and hawed. Suddenly, Clyde heard a man’s voice yelling directly into the phone. Something about “it’s over” and “never want you to call my wife again, do you understand?” 

“No, I don’t understand,” Clyde said. 

There was a pause, then the man said, “Are you gay?” 

“Ugh! God, no!” Clyde said, disgusted and embarrassed. “Who the hell is this!?” 

“So, you’re not having an affair with my wife?”

Back at J&D, Michael asked Jay, “Have you had a break-in.” 

“No,” Jay said. “We’re just shoring up security.” 

“Who’d want to steal anything around here?” Michael asked.

Jay scoffed and said, “You’d be surprised.” 

On the phone, Clyde felt and sounded angry. “No, I’m not having an affair with anyone. And certainly not another woman. Who is this? Is this Marvin?” 

“I don’t think I would be surprised,” Michael said. He knew something was amiss, even though he didn’t know what it was. And he absolutely hated the feeling of knowing something but not being able to figure out what it was. “What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know why you think anything is going on,” Jay said. 

“Because you cut off an award-winning campaign, and now you’re tightening security in this little two-man office. You afraid Damian’s going to rip you off?” 

Clyde did her best to smile, because she had read somewhere that it made you seem friendlier and more likable, even on the phone. Even so, her words came out in sharp, harsh bursts. “This is Clydene Jackson, Ted Jackson’s wife. I believe you met my husband.” She waited for a reply. 

“Yes, briefly.” 

Clyde softened her voice. “Each year, we have a Thanksgiving Day party. If you’d like, you’re welcome to come.” Then she backtracked a beat. “I’d like you to come. That is, I’d like it if you could come. It’s completely family-friendly. So bring the boys. We have some close friends over, and… That’s about it.” 

Michael told them a story. He hated to reveal so much of what lay beneath his skin, but it was what he always advised his clients to do. And so it was only fair that when the chips were down, he should come clean as well. He leaned up against the wall and began: 

“I fell in love in college, to a beautiful, wonderful, smart girl. The problem was, I wasn’t doing so well in my classes. Academics just don’t agree with me. The only reason I was there was because my parents wanted me to go. But that’s another story.

“So I was in love with a straight-A student, and I was just barely passing. And she didn’t know any of this. Because I was afraid to tell her the trouble I was having. I was afraid to tell her how much I hated it. I thought she would look down on me and that would be the end of it. So I kept it a secret.” 

Jay interrupted. “This has nothing to do with the price of eggs.” 

Michael put his hand up to calm him and continued. “But things got so bad for me, I finally had to tell her. And do you know what she did?” 

“What?” Jay asked blandly. 

“She thought it was no big deal, and she introduced me to her Uncle John, a self-made millionaire who felt exactly as I did about school. Actually, he was more crass about it. I believe his exact words were, ‘I don’t know why anyone would ever want to waste their money on college.’” 

Jay and Damian both chuckled. 

“Anyhow, it wasn’t the end of our relationship, and I became John’s protégé. Completely changed my life.” 

Jay said, “And what’s the moral of the story? That I should tell you what you think is going on, because you’ll probably surprise me and be understanding and solve all the problems you think I have?” 

Michael smiled lightly and nodded. “Something like that.” 

Jay shook his head. “You’re a marketing genius, but you can’t solve everyone’s problems.” 

“If I’m such a marketing genius, why did you drop me like plague-infested vermin, without even a word?” 

“That had nothing to do with you,” Jay said. 

Damian finished his task and began to descend the ladder. Jay and Michael were each leaning, one against the desk, one against the wall, each at the same angle.

“So you were happy with how the campaign was going?” Michael asked. 

“Very happy,” Jay said. 

“So that’s why you stopped it.” 

“No, the reason we stopped it—“ Jay apparently couldn’t find the words to express what he needed to say next. 

Marvin apparently couldn’t find the words to express what he wanted to say next. He told Clyde they’d have to get back to her. Then he hung up. 

Clyde stood, staring out into her back yard. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees, producing a small shower of red and orange confetti each time it blew. 

She sighed and wondered what it all meant. 

Chapter 3

Michael stared across the table at a sad face, which in turn stared out the dining room window. The face looked darker than it ought to have. Under her eyes swung dark, tired bags of exhaustion. Her cheeks drooped like a dog’s jowls. He was sure she had been a decade younger only a few weeks ago. They were all growing old, too old, too fast. Life was so short, and it was impossible to be happy. In the end, as the Preacher wrote, all is vanity. Michael didn’t remember much from the Bible, but that he remembered. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

“I’m sorry, Mira,” he said. Every word felt tired.

Mira peered at him through a confused expression. “What for?” she asked.

“You tell me. Whatever’s making you so miserable.” His voice sounded tender and inviting.

Clyde raised her eyes, which had previously been examining the designs etched into the edge of her plate. Now she scrutinized Michael’s face. Even though his attention was still on Mira, Michael saw Clyde out the corner of his eye. And Ted, from the head of the table, momentarily stopped carving the Thanksgiving ham. He too inspected his friend’s face, just for a moment. Then he returned to the block of ham before him.

Mira looked like she was about to say something, but in the end, she kept perfectly quiet.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it,” Michael said. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

Clyde spoke up. “It was still a sweet sentiment.”

Ted paused his carving again.

It may have sounded sweet, but it was really just mental exhaustion. He didn’t feel like being the star of the show tonight. And he would never be sweet enough to earn the affections of the small, sensitive woman with sleek, black hair and dark eyes.

“See,” Ted said. “Now, why was that sweet?”

“Because I’m too tired tonight to be an asshole,” Michael said.

The two women giggled, and Michael felt his spirits lift a smidge.

Ted resumed carving. He had sliced up about a third of the ham, and he was close to having enough for everyone to eat.

Michael sighed. He breathed in rich aromas of about ten different gourmet recipes, ably prepared. Clyde had done it again, as usual. It was a wonderful spread, even if only the four of them had showed up to the party. Yeah, some party, Michael thought. If this is a party, I’d hate to see the funeral.

“This sucks,” Michael said.

“Well, thank you,” Clyde said. “I love you too, Michael.”

“No, I mean, this is a party. We should be laughing it up and having fun. And we’re not, and that sucks.”

Then he added, “The food is the only part that doesn’t suck.”

Mira snorted and grimaced and resumed staring out the window.

Clyde said, “I don’t think many of us much feel like laughing right now.”

Ted set down the carving knife.

Michael leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I don’t much feel like it myself, to tell the truth.”

Silence permeated the room for a moment.

“That sucks, too,” Mira said.

---

Damian was alone in the office when the big man in the brown leather jacket returned. This time, the man had two others with him. They barged in, and without a word the two grabbed Damian by the arms and yanked him to his feet, almost pulled his arms out of their sockets, dragged him to the wall, held him there, while the big man shouted at him. It all happened so fast, Damian only caught bunches of words.

“I told you to lay off… still in my way… still interfering with business… I asked nicely… not nice anymore…”

Damian protested. He had done what was asked. He just wanted to be left alone.

The man wound up and punched him in the gut, and Damian thought his insides were going to come out his mouth. He heaved in pain. The two men yanked him up, and the big man slugged him again, in the same spot. Damian wailed. The man hit him again.

Then the man grabbed Damian by the cheeks with one hand. “Look at me!” the man yelled.

Damian did his best to see between the tears. The man spoke through clenched teeth, just inches from Damian’s eyes.

“So innocent. You ever had your face messed up?”

He was still holding Damian’s face with one hand while the man’s other fist, clenched, hovered inches from Damian’s nose. It began to pull back, and Damian braced himself.

The experience was not what Damian expected. There was pain, yes. But mostly he felt his head jerk with an odd jarring sensation, followed by disorientation and dizziness.

Through the haze, a gun cocked.

“Stop right there,” Jay said from the entrance, “unless you want to lose the use of that arm.”

Damian could see nothing, but he could sense every word and every action. Jay was aiming his black, semi-automatic pistol at the big man.

“Except that I’m not as good a shot as I probably should be,” Jay continued. “There’s no telling what I might hit.”

The man slowly turned around.

“Is that gun registered?” he asked, coolly.

“Yes,” Jay said, “it’s registered.” That was a lie. “What about these goons? Are they registered?”

“Hey,” the man said, “there’s no need to let this get out of control.”

“Too late,” Jay said, teeth clenched, and he cocked the gun’s hammer. “Now let my brother go!”

The two men released Damian.

“Come here, Damian,” he heard his brother call.

Damian staggered in his brother’s direction and collapsed against a wall.

“Now we’re going to call the police,” Jay said.

“No,” Damian rasped, weakly. He could feel his senses beginning to return.

“Yes,” Jay said. “This ends here.”

With the gun still pointed, Jay reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He flipped it open and started to key “911” with one hand. As if by magic, the three assailants had disappeared through the inconspicuous door in the far corner of the room, a door Damian rarely even thought about. It led to a utility-and-storage area, and to the emergency exit.

---

Jane rolled effortlessly down the road in her dark green minivan. She had finished work for the day, and she was now looking forward to meeting her kids after school. Her heart felt relieved and carefree, until she saw a car pulled over on the side of the road. The car had been pulled over by a cop, whose flashing lights still warned of danger. The car’s driver stood, spread-eagle, with his hands flat on the car’s roof, while a tall, athletic, uniformed officer stood nearby.

Jane didn’t know the specifics of the situation. She didn’t know why the man was pulled over. She didn’t know why he was ordered out of his car or whether he would be arrested. And none of that mattered. Because ever since October, ever since her close friends and next-door neighbors had been harassed and arrested for something they had not done, she had felt a growing fear. The experience had hit too close to home. What she felt wasn’t a rational fear, nor was it a healthy respect, as people sometimes say fear is. What Jane felt was terror, helplessness. Her gut tightened, and she couldn’t breathe. She saw herself as the driver who was pulled over, harassed, humiliated, and abused. She had to choose between fight and flight. And she didn’t know which to choose.

---

“I’m incompetent,” Ted said, in an uncharacteristic moment of inner confession.

Michael squinted his eyes at him from across the table of the hole-in-the-wall café. “You’re one of the best litigators I know,” he said.

“Thank you for the complement, but I already know I’m a competent litigator.” Ted sipped his coffee.

Michael finally got it. Ted was no good at being a people person. He was a litigator, and arguer. He loved being right. So Ted loved arguing arguments, and he loved winning them. But a people person Ted wasn’t. A people person needs to lose arguments sometimes, just for the sake of getting along. Ted was no good at that.

But Michael didn’t care. It took all kinds, was Michael’s philosophy, and he got along with Ted just fine. In fact, Michael got along with Ted more than with most arguers he knew. Michael sometimes thought Ted underestimated himself.

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael said. “Everyone’s incompetent at something. That’s what I’m here for.”

“To be incompetent at something?”

“Right.” Michael went along with the joke, but after a second, he thought maybe Ted didn’t get the joke. “No, what I’m here for is to be incompetent at different things than you, because it takes all kinds of people to make the world complete. I’m yin to your yang.”

Ted took a breath. “Except that you’re actually yang to my yin, to carry the metaphor through to its proper conclusion. And my problem is that I would like to be the yin once in a while.”

Michael needed to get at the bottom of this if he was going to help his friend. Whatever the problem was, it was rooted in Ted’s self-esteem. But Ted was normally confident and headstrong, even when he didn’t actually know what he was doing, and Michael had no idea what triggered Ted’s self-doubt.

Normally, Michael would wait for Ted to tell what was bothering him, because pushing Ted on issues of the psyche put him on the defensive. Then it was impossible to get anywhere with him. Normally, Michael would wait for Ted, but this time, he sensed that Ted wanted to talk about it and didn’t know how to begin.

“Where is this coming from?” Michael asked.

Ted took another sip of coffee and savored it.

Michael backpedaled, as he leaned back in his chair. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It just seemed like you wanted to.”

Ted swallowed and nodded. “I don’t know how to analyze this problem.”

“What problem is that?” Michael realized he was letting his own coffee get cold. He picked it up and sipped. It was no longer piping hot, but not lukewarm yet, either.

“Every day,” Ted said, “I gain a new appreciation of what you do for a living.”

Michael sipped his coffee again, and listened.

“Your expertise is in getting people to do what they wouldn’t otherwise do, to get inside their heads and push them to act in the way you want them to. I fear it’s a skill I will never master.”

What do you say, Michael wondered, when a man proves he hasn’t the first clue as to what he’s talking about? Where do you begin?

Michael closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. Then he looked straight into Ted’s eyes and said, “Okay, let’s take this one step at a time. Firstly, how many jury trials have you done?”

Ted looked surprised. “I don’t know.”

“A bunch?”

Ted nodded. “Yes, a fair number.”

“And how many did you win?”

“But that’s different.”

“And how many judges have you appeared before?” Michael ignored Ted’s objection and continued.

“Judges aren’t people. They care about facts.”

Michael chuckled. “You think so?”

Ted paused a moment. Then he said, “No, I don’t. Judges don’t care about facts any more than anyone else in the world.”

“That courtroom is your domain,” Michael said. “And you need to bring it out here into the real world— No, scratch that. You need to get over this mental block you have that’s getting you down. It’s all in your head.”

From the instant the words left Michael’s lips, he knew how stupid and condescending they sounded. Still, they were what he really believed. And he had learned through countless hours of conversation that Ted responded best when he shot straight. So he said what he thought.

“There are two problems with that,” Ted said. “Firstly, you can’t argue with results. You constantly tell me that. And my performance in my personal life is measurably less than my performance in the courtroom.

“Secondly, what I do in court is different than what you do. I can’t make a judge or jury do I what I want them to? The law gives them limited options, and all I can do is to find out what their values are and to tailor my presentation to take advantage of those values. In other words, the best I can do is to give them an excuse to lean toward the opinion I want them to have. But I can’t implant an idea in their heads that wasn’t there to start with. Every time I try, I fail.”

“So stop trying,” Michael said.

“Very funny, my friend.”

“I’m serious,” Michael continued. “Do you think when I write an ad or a press release that I’m somehow manipulating people’s minds?”

“Yes, I do,” Ted said.

Before Michael could object, Ted continued, “And if I had that skill, I wouldn’t be in such a slump right now.”

Michael peered quizzically at his friend. “What happened?”

“Halloween happened.”

Confusion overtook Michael. “That was over a month ago.”

Ted nodded. “Yes, it was.”

“Where have I been?”

Ted stared back at him. “You’ve been right there. But I’ve been hiding from you.”

“Behind a mask?”

“Yes…” Ted surveyed Michael’s face.

“Mask? Halloween?” Michael said.

“Right.” Ted continued. “Remember the man who was arrested for holding up a liquor store?”

“And they dropped the charges because they arrested the wrong guy,” Michael said.

“Yes, him.”

“That was weird,” Michael interjected.

“I’ve seen stranger,” Ted said. “I paid his bail, never got a dime of that money back, and when I tried to talk to him, he wouldn’t even say hello.”

“Sounds like an ungrateful bastard,” Michael said.

“Something I said turned him off.”

“I doubt it.” Michael’s coffee had cooled substantially now, and he took a large gulp.

“Clyde said he was frightened. And maybe he was, coming from Pakistan. I don’t know what he expects from the legal system.”

“Your coffee is cold.”

“Yes, I know,” Ted said. “That’s not the first time I couldn’t get through to someone who needed me. And he was short-changed because of it.”

“I thought you said the charges were dropped.”

“They were,” Ted said. “But it was my responsibility, and I didn’t come through.”

“That’s not your fault. And everything worked out alright in the end.”

“He picked up and moved back to Pakistan,” Ted said.

“Who’s complaining about it, besides you?”

“You see?” Ted said. “This is why I don’t like to talk about these things. No one gets it. I’m not—”

Ted cut short what he clearly wanted to say.

“You’re not what?” Michael said.

“Nothing,” Ted said.

“Uh. Yes. Something!” Michael said this in a sing-song voice, as though he were taunting his friend. And in a way, maybe he was. He was tired of getting the official run-around, and now he didn’t care what the fallout would be. If Ted was going to drag him out for coffee and talk, he was going to talk. Michael was sick of beating around the bush.

And Ted did talk. He struggled with each word, measuring it carefully before uttering it, as though each one was trapped in a prison inside him, and he needed to free each word individually before he could say it.

“I’m… not… sure… I… get… it… myself.”

Michael looked him straight in the eye again. “You wanted him to respond for you, not for him. You don’t know that he got short-changed, because you don’t have any evidence. You just want to feel connected, and you don’t.

“But you can’t depend on other people for your self-esteem, because you can’t control how they feel and what they think. How you feel about yourself comes from within, regardless of what anyone else does. And the sooner you admit that, the sooner you’ll be able to change how you feel about yourself.”

Michael examined Ted’s face, but he couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Does any of this make any sense?” he asked.

Ted shook his head. “No, I don’t think it does.”

Michael couldn’t help but chuckle.

---

Damian was sitting at home reading a book when they knocked on his door. The radio was playing a jazzy rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The two children were playing downstairs in the basement. No one else was home, because his wife was still at work.

As he answered the door, he felt self-conscious about the bruise on his face. He had no broken bones, but his head and body still ached. Damian didn’t want anyone to see him this way, and he didn’t quite know why. Maybe because he was ashamed of being such a wimp, of getting beat up by the big kids. Yes, that was it. That had to be it, even though he knew in his head that he had nothing to be ashamed of.

It was strange. The police could not find the men who had beat him up, even though they all but identified themselves, and on camera no less. Damian wondered if maybe he would continue to feel ashamed until the situation was resolved. He knew he would continue to feel uneasy until it was.

He swung the front door open and shivered at the cold, dry breeze that wafted over his body. Greeting him just outside were two uniformed police officers. He recognized one of them from the day there had been an after-school fight outside his apartment. She was the officer whom he had talked to.

“Hello,” he said, and he smiled at her.

“Mr. Alvarez?” said the man standing next to her. He was taller than she, and tougher looking.

“Yes,” Damian acknowledged.

“We’re talking with families in this neighborhood about the fights around here lately.”

He eyed Damian’s face.

Damian said, “I only saw the one. That was the day we talked to you,” and he motioned toward the lady cop. “I didn’t even know about the others.”

“Hey, what’s that?” the man pointed into Damian’s apartment.

As Damian turned to look, the man shoved past. He strode in two steps to an end table and picked up something. He held up a baggie in which hung two marijuana cigarettes.

“Those aren’t mine,” Damian said. They really weren’t his. In fact, he was sure they weren’t even there on that table, and he didn’t understand how the cop had found them there.

“Yeah, sure. I haven’t heard that one before,” the lady cop said sardonically.

She ordered him to the floor, face-down, handcuffed him, and began to read him his rights.

“What about my children?” Damian said. “I can’t leave my children at home alone.”

“Can we ask one of the neighbors to stay with them?”

Damian shook his head. “No, their friends are away on vacation. I can call my brother. He can be here in a few minutes.”

“Officer Dietrich will stay here until he arrives.”

Damian shuddered at that thought.

“Will you stay with them?” He craned to look into her face. “Please?”

She thought for a moment. Then she looked at her fellow officer and said, “You found the evidence. You should take him in.”

He added, “One of us needs to search the apartment for more drugs and for paraphernalia.”

“I can do that,” she said. “What’s your brother’s number?” she asked Damian. “I’ll call him to come over.”

---

Damian never got a chance to make his phone call from jail. Officer Pamela Burns called his brother Jay, who immediately called Michael, because Michael had once told him about a good criminal lawyer he knew, who immediately called Ted.

Michael’s version of the story was more than Jay had told him. It included a scene in which Sam Baedes personally held up the investigation into the assault at the J&D office. And that lady cop, she was the same one involved when Mira got beat up by the Big Bully himself. This was more than just a coincidence, in Michael’s view. In Michael’s version of the story, the chief ordered her to plant evidence, in order to misdirect the investigation and further victimize Jay and Damian.

Ted refused to just accept Michael’s version of events, because Michael was clearly fuming at Baedes and not thinking logically. But after Ted spoke to Jay and Damian, he did agree that it was time for another special meeting of the Committee.

Chapter 4

Michael bit into his coffee cake and sipped his coffee. He reclined on the big, comfy couch in Ted and Clydene’s reception room. Usually, they met in the living room—or “den,” as Clyde sometimes called it. But for special guests, they pulled out the reception room. Tucked into a corner of the house, just off the main foyer, the Jacksons’ reception room welcomed guests with light hues and plush chairs and sofas. 

Michael was surprised at how good the coffee was today. 

“Wow, that’s good!” he said to Clyde, the only other person in the room. 

“Incredible what you can accomplish by cleaning the pot,” Clyde replied. 

“You should do that more often.” Then he added, “I always wondered how you could be such a wonderful cook and have your coffee turn out so… uh…” 

“Pukey?” Clyde said. 

“Yeah, pukey,” Michael agreed with a large grin. 

Mira, Ted, Jay, and Damian entered. 

“Okay, let’s call the meeting to order,” Mira said. She was clearly in executive mode, as Michael called it, not the soft, timid creature she was most of the time. “As you know, Jay and Damian have been having some trouble with Baedes and his department. I’m going to ask them to tell us their story, all together here, so we can hear it from them. But first, we should ratify spending on their bail and legal fees.”

Ted interrupted her. “Point of order,” he said. “I’ve already worked out payment for legal expenses.” 

Mira looked confused and a little disturbed. “What do you mean?” 

“We’ve worked it all out. We don’t need the Committee’s money.” 

“Okay,” she said, slowly, as though she weren’t sure how to pronounce the word. “Then I’ll hand the floor over to Jay and Damian.” 

Jay thanked Mira, and he told the group his story and the story of his brother. 

When he got to the part where WBH’s henchmen beat up Damian, Clyde interjected bitterly, “I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure that falls within the realm of unfair competition.” 

That elicited a chuckle from those gathered, even Damian himself, who was sitting quietly, listening, as Jay spoke. 

Most of the crew had already heard pieces of the story. But they had never had the opportunity to hear the whole thing told by the men to whom is was happening, to see Damian’s bruised face in quiet witness, and to ask questions. 

The first question came, interestingly enough, from Clyde. “So, they’re just misdemeanor drug-possession charges. Probably not even any jail time. Why don’t you just plead out?” 

Damian suddenly spoke. “Because I need to fight,” he said. When no one seemed to understand, he continued. “I am not a criminal,” he said. “What I do, I do for my family, and for my community. And I do not bring drugs into my house, and I don’t allow anyone else to.” He paused and shook his head. “And these charges hurt you. Business associates stop working with you. The government denies you benefits. Even this little thing would ruin me. It would ruin my family, and it would ruin my business. So I have to fight it.”

Clyde nodded. “I understand,” she said. 

Mira asked, “Okay. I know you’ve been threatened and attacked by mob thugs. What does that have to do with your arrest?” 

Clyde answered for the two brothers. “Baedes is dragging his feet on finding the thugs, because he hates bullies and favors the underdog. And he thinks Jay and Damian are the bullies. He says they have a monopoly, and that they’re conducting unfair business. And that’s why he had Damian set up, because he wants to damage their reputation.” 

Mira stared and thought. Jay looked confused. Damian sat quietly. Ted looked embarrassed. 

Michael said, “I think you’re giving Baedes too much credit.” But secretly, what she said felt right to him. 

Ted took an opposite view. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Clyde. You’re jumping to conclusions just because you feel sorry for these men.” 

Clyde said, “I’ve never felt sorry for anyone. I’m saying that because it’s the truth.” 

“Fine, then. How do you know it’s the truth?” Ted asked. 

The next thing Clyde did both disappointed and amazed Michael. Instead of laying out reasons for her belief, she clammed up. She said nothing. She looked like she was about to say something, wanted to say something, and maybe even had something to say. But she didn’t say it. Michael stared at Clyde intently. And for an instant, he thought he saw a secret hiding behind her eyes. He glanced at Mira, to see if she noticed the same thing—Michael admired Mira’s ability to see into peoples’ souls. But Mira was involved in her own thoughts, whatever they might be. 

“See,” Ted said. “I didn’t think there was anything there. Besides, Baedes wouldn’t look the other way and let the mob take over the town. He’d tell them to stay in line, contact the Attorney General, and file an antitrust suit.”

Now, that really was giving Baedes too much credit. Michael didn’t think Baedes even knew the word antitrust.

“A lawsuit would take forever, and by the time the smoke cleared, WBH would have lost their business.” 

Ted looked at her as though she had two heads. “That’s not true. The court can issue a preliminary injunction to prevent irreparable harm, like the business going under. And I’m sure they have enough funding to sustain a legal challenge. There’s no reason they would resort to bribery and violence just to promote competition.” 

Clyde was livid. “So what are you saying? Damian’s making it up? He didn’t really get beat up? Baedes didn’t back-shelf his case? What? Our city’s finest are as on the ball as ever with this one? Well,” Clyde backtracked, “I guess they are, but that’s beside the point—“ 

“I don’t see what we can do to help,” Mira interrupted, with an edge in her voice. 

Ted explained. “The fact that no arrests have been made, even with the abundance of evidence available, is interesting, and perhaps further investigation will find something there we can use. But the significance of this case is as follows…” 

“Ted, you need to get to the point,” Clydene said. 

Ted continued. “Most people who are brought up on drug charges—especially drug possession charges—never get the chance to challenge those charges, even if they’re innocent, because the drug laws themselves are stacked against the accused. That’s why it’s so easy for the police and district attorney to distort the evidence to get a conviction, or even to manufacture evidence. 

“That’s why many defense lawyers won’t touch these cases, or they just recommend a plea bargain. Even if the accused is demonstrably innocent, most of them can’t afford the legal fees to bring these cases to trial. Therefore, most such cases never see a jury. Most people arrested on drug charges simply admit to being guilty, even if the evidence itself is circumstantial or shoddy.

“Now, we have someone who not only maintains his innocence, but is willing and able to defend it. Furthermore, my preliminary investigations indicate— This is off the record, by the way.“ 

“Of course,” Mira said. 

“—indicate that the evidence against Damian was handled shoddily. Because of the way the physical evidence was handled, there may not be any physical evidence to directly implicate my client. All that’s left is the testimony of two police officers.” 

There was a moment’s silence while those gathered mulled over Ted’s words. 

“And I think I can sell the possibility,” Ted concluded, “that the evidence was planted.” 

Michael asked Mira, “Does that sound interesting yet?” 

---

In some places in the world, people don’t believe in snow. They believe snow doesn’t exist, that it is merely stuff of fairy tales and legends. Even in some parts of the United States, the people don’t believe in snow. Jane remembered one friend from her youth, couldn’t remember her name. What Jane did remember was that this friend grew up in southern California, where palm trees grow and the weather is moderate. But when she moved away from home to go to college in New England, the weather amazed her. The people of New England did not live with earthquakes and tsunamis. They lived with snow—and to a lesser extent hurricanes. 

Jane remembered the conversation, or part of it anyway. 

“I didn’t even believe in snow until I moved here,” her friend said. 

Jane giggled.

“No, I’m serious,” the friend continued. “We never had snow in Los Angeles, and I thought it didn’t actually exist. I thought it was something you only hear about in stories and fairy tales.” 

Jane remembered being amazed at how much a person’s past affects her, how much preconceptions can shape how she views the world. The first time this friend drove in snow, she was probably terrified. Jane, however, grew up with it. 

She barreled along comfortably in her SUV, despite the fact that large white flakes were falling faster than she had expected. Yes, the weather man had warned her. But she needed to get home, and she didn’t want to wait for terrified drivers like her old, half-forgotten friend. Fortunately, the road was wide enough to make travel safe, even if she started to slide. It was wide enough for two lanes, though it was only marked for one. Cars frequently formed two lanes along this road during rush hour. 

Jane approached a blue compact, putting along as though it were struggling to push through. There was less than an inch of fluff on the ground, and the surface provided plenty of traction, enough to go faster than 10 miles an hour. 

“¡Hijole!” Jane said. “I could walk faster than this!”

She glanced in her rear-view mirror, then carefully pulled off to the right and began passing the little, blue car. 

Suddenly, she saw the flashing red and blue lights in her rear-view mirror. For most people, it probably would not be a big deal. But recent events had set Jane on edge, terrified her even. And now a cop car was following her, coming from out of nowhere, into the here, pulling her over. 

Her heart felt as if it had stopped. 

---

Michael followed Ted down the old, courthouse hallway. The plaster walls, cracked in places, shone a simple off-white. The clean, black and white floor tiles alternated in a chess-board pattern. And a musty scent pervaded the air, the smell of old building.

“The trial is in Courtroom 2,” Ted said, “right up here to the right. Just grab a seat in the gallery. I need to meet with my client.” 

“Knock ’em dead,” Michael said. 

Before entering the courtroom, however, he found a men’s room. He was about to open the door when he heard a voice he knew from inside, a voice he could never forget, the voice of a large, crew-cut, beady-eyed bully. 

“You’re all set for you testimony?” Baedes said. 

“No problem,” said another voice. 

“And if he accuses you of planting the evidence?” 

“I’ll appear mildly flustered, but I’ll stand my ground, and our guy will handle it on cross.” 

“Right,” the chief confirmed. 

“Do you think he knows?” the other voice asked. 

“About the evidence?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No. I think they’re expecting to lose. There’s a reason these cases never go to trial, in a sane world,” said the chief. 

“It almost makes you wonder what’s the point.” 

Michael heard them walking, and he quickly ducked to the side and sat on a nearby bench. Baedes exited the room, a younger officer next to him, turning away from Michael, walking down the hallway. They apparently did not even see him. But before they were out of earshot, Michael heard the chief say: 

“The top dog can always use a little humiliation.” 

Michael’s first thought was, That stupid, fucking jerk. I’d love to take that top dog down a notch. But he said nothing, did nothing to intervene or to challenge them. That would only have gotten him in trouble. No one would believe his story, anyhow, even if he were to call upon all his powers of persuasion to tell it. No one would believe the story, because the man in uniform and his boss would claim Michael made it up.

Michael entered the courtroom as the jury was being empaneled. What he noticed next fascinated him and horrified him at the same time. Already seated in the courtroom was Beady-eyes himself, and seated next to him, his henchman in uniform. 

Michael thought, Clyde was right. Beady-eyes is involved. Lucky guess?

Clyde had indeed been right, not just about a cop planting evidence for a drug bust— That was a big enough cliché by itself; it required no leap of logic or insight, or even truth or evidence. But why would he plant evidence? What was his motive? Did Clyde nail it on the head? As an ad man, Michael knew all about human nature, because it was part of his job, and he had learned to be an observer of human nature. For example, Mira had an almost astounding ability sometimes to sense what others were thinking, an ability that both endeared her to him and scared him. But Mira had not come up with Clyde’s crazy theory. Clyde had come up with this theory on her own, and everyone had thought it was outlandish, everyone including Mira.

Michael’s thoughts were cut short by the action in the courtroom. 

The prosecutor gave his opening statement. Then Ted gave his, in which he claimed he would demonstrate that “the evidence against Mr. Alvarez was so shoddily handled that no one can know for certain if he’s guilty or innocent. That’s reasonable doubt.” Ted also said he would reveal an astounding fact: that the arresting officer himself had means, motive, and opportunity to plant the evidence. The prosecutor asked Dietrich—that was the officer’s name—to describe what had happened that day. He admitted the baggie of marijuana cigarettes into evidence. It was everything one would expect from watching courtroom television dramas.

But Ted’s cross-examination surprised everyone. Rather than scrutinizing the officer’s account of the events, Ted asked about fingerprints. “Are you aware of any forensic tests performed on the baggie or its contents?” 

“Yes,” replied Dietrich. “The crime lab fingerprinted the baggie and its contents.” 

“Objection,” said the prosecutor, matter-of-factly. “Hearsay.” 

“I have here the forensics report, and I am prepared to call to the stand the technician who wrote this report.” He picked up several papers from his table and handed them to the prosecutor. 

The prosecutor looked over the papers and said, “Objection withdrawn, and the state stipulates as to the content of this report.” 

Ted handed the report to Dietrich. 

“Please look on the second page,” Ted said with an air of smugness, “at the top of the page, and tell me if there were any fingerprints found on the baggie or its contents.” 

He flipped to the second page and said, “Yes there were.” 

“Whose?” Ted asked. 

Dietrich hesitated. 

“Whose fingerprints?” Ted repeated. 

“Mine,” Dietrich said. “But that makes sense. I was the one who found it.” 

“Were your fingerprints found only on the outside of the bag?” 

“No,” Dietrich intoned. 

“Were they found on the cigarettes as well?” 

“I guess I touched them,” Dietrich said. 

“Yes, I guess you did,” Ted said. “Were any other fingerprints found anywhere on the inside or outside of the bag, or on its contents?”

“No,” Dietrich replied. 

“So were Mr. Alverez’s fingerprints anywhere on the evidence?” 

“That doesn’t mean anything. He could have wiped them off.” 

“He also could have left them somewhere less conspicuous. Didn’t you stop to think that if he had had the foresight to remove his fingerprints from the evidence, he would have had the foresight to put the evidence somewhere where a passing police officer couldn’t see it?” 

“Objection,” the prosecutor replied. 

“I withdraw the question,” Ted said. He looked a little taller than normal. 

“One more thing,” Ted said. He picked up the sealed baggie and examined it. “Hey, one of the cigarettes is missing!” he said. 

He showed the baggie to the jury and to the judge. The judge started to say something, when Ted exclaimed with great flair, “Oh, here it is!” And he reached behind Dietrich’s ear and pulled out a thin, white object. Then without opening the baggie, he pushed the object into the plastic, and magically, the cigarette returned to the  inside of the bag. He showed it to everyone, as a giggle rustled throughout the courtroom.

“Very entertaining, Mr. Jackson,” said the judge. “I trust you have a point to make.” 

“Yes, your honor.” Ted turned to Dietrich. “Do you think that’s a clever trick?” 

“Well…” Dietrich hesitated. His eyes darted back and forth for a moment. 

“Here’s a better question. Do you know how I did that particular trick?” 

“I can imagine how you might have done it.”

“Because you’re an amateur magician yourself.” 

“Yes,” Dietrich replied. 

“You sometimes perform at kid’s birthday parties.” 

“Uh…” 

“… because it’s fun and a nice treat for the kids,” Ted said. 

“Yes.” 

“Indeed,” Ted said. “You could even perform a trick with an object like, oh, say, this,” and he held up the baggie of marijuana cigarettes. “You could make it look like you picked it up, even if you had planted it there yourself.” 

“Objection,” said the prosecutor. 

“Overruled,” said the judge. 

“Yes, I guess so,” said Dietrich. “if I really wanted to.” He stressed the word “wanted.”

Ted continued. “And this type of sleight of hand is in fact very basic. Even an amateur like yourself could perform it convincingly.” 

“With practice, I could. But I didn’t.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dietrich.” Ted strutted back to his seat. 

Chapter 5

Ted noticed the tall, burly police chief, dressed in a business suit and seated in the gallery. Far from intimidating the lawyer, his presence made Ted even more determined to nail him and his department to the wall. Ted knew that Baedes was interested in the case. Baedes was even involved, Ted knew, because he was on the prosecution’s witness list. Ted wanted to nail him to the wall, because Ted hated to lose. Even more than that, beyond even Baedes’s extreme approach to law enforcement—and the fact that he was biologically incapable of admitting that he’d ever been wrong—Baedes was after Ted and Mira, personally, and Ted knew that he had taken some of his fear and frustration out on Ted’s clients. Questions, threats, lies, all without counsel present. Damian hadn’t told him anything, because Damian hadn’t known anything, because there wasn’t anything to know. That seemed just to make Baedes more upset, more angry. 

Ted hated to lose, but he hated even more to be bullied. 

As Damian put it, “You didn’t know which was worse: the man in the blue uniform, or the man in the brown jacket.” 

“That’s easy,” Ted said. “The blue uniform didn’t actually hit you, did he.” 

“Yeah, but I thought he was going to.” 

As for Damian Alvarez, it normally made sense that he would fight tooth and nail over such a minor charge. True, if he pled guilty, nothing would likely happen to him, except for a fine that he was more than able to pay. But there were a host of so-called collateral punishments he could be subjected to. Even a trivial offense like possession, if he were convicted, might mean he couldn’t adopt a child, might cost him business clients, could interfere with his getting a job, if he needed to.

It would also mean he couldn’t own a firearm. And ever since the man in the brown jacket threatened Damian, Jay insisted he keep a gun in the office, just in case. Because these competitors, they were militant, they were dangerous, and—mob ties or no—they were crazy. And with all the evidence of that assault, the cops still had not yet identified the man in the brown leather jacket. Damian had gotten a call from the investigator on the case, a Harris Kemp, who had asked him a bunch of questions. And that was the last Damian had heard. One more reason for Ted to nail Baedes to the wall. 

Whatever other reasons for following his defense through to the end, Damian was determined to see it through, and he had the money and means to fight. And the case could be great publicity for the Committee. Michael would no doubt see to that. Ted wasn’t sure that his client was strictly innocent. But he thought there was a chance he could get Damian off. So Ted took his client’s lead. He argued tooth and nail. 

And he was winning. 

Truthfully, the prosecution had flubbed their case. The prosecutor was a newbie. They probably threw him on this case as an easy win, something to break his teeth in on. As a result, he didn’t do his homework. The evidence was suspect. And he made numerous mistakes in his execution. 

The other officer at the scene, a Pamela Burns—whom Ted had previously had dealings with—testified for the prosecution. She confirmed Dietrich’s story. And the prosecutor added some stuff in about how she and Dietrich had always been honest, disciplined, and only in search of the truth. But Ted got her to admit that she had not noticed the evidence at first. It was only after the other officer had pointed it out to her that she noticed it.

Then he asked her, “You have a degree in Criminal Justice.” 

“Objection,” said the prosecutor. 

Ted stared quizzically at him. The judge must have been, too, because he added, “Irrelevant.” 

Ted responded, “Judge, I have the right to question this witness.” 

“Agreed,” said the judge. “Overruled.” And then he looked at the prosecuting attorney and said, “Please try to be more selective with your objections.” 

Ted repeated himself, “You have a degree in Criminal Justice.” 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“In fact, you have a master’s degree.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you attained this degree while working for the Boston police department.” 

“Yes, I attended Boston University while employed at the Boston police department, under the PCIPP.” 

“The PCIPP is an incentive program,” Ted said. 

“Right, the way it works is—“ 

“That’s okay, we don’t need to know that. But we would like to know, did you like working in Boston?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Why did you move to Abe’s Turn?” 

“It’s a smaller department, a chance for career advancement.” 

“But Boston still has a good police force.” 

“Yes, absolutely!” she said. 

The prosecutor apparently couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “Your honor, what does this have to do with anything?”

“I’ll allow the question,” the judge said, “but move it along.” 

Ted continued. “You worked there for how many years?” 

“Three,” Pam said. 

“While you were working in Boston, did you ever encounter anyone using marijuana?” 

“Yes.” 

“In fact, you encountered many who had small amounts of marijuana in their possession.” 

“Yes,” she confirmed again. 

“Out of the many people you encountered with this amount of the drug,” and Ted held up the baggie, “how many did you arrest?” 

Pam hesitated, and she looked at the chief, who had glued his gaze on her from the gallery. “I don’t recall,” she said. 

“Well, I dug through the arrest records in Boston in order to find out the answer. Care to guess what number I came up with?” 

“No,” she said, to chuckles from the jury and gallery. 

“Would you believe three?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“Only a few arrests. Did you just ignore most of the offenders?” 

“No,” she protested. “Most of the time, we found more than that, and we did arrest them. But sometimes with trivial cases, we just confiscated the contraband and let them off with a warning, because it wasn’t worth all the trouble of prosecuting them all. If we had to arrest every pot smoker in the city, we wouldn’t be able to fight more serious crimes.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to fight more serious crimes.” Ted grinned. 

“Uh—” 

“So why did you and Officer Dietrich take the time and effort to file an arrest in this case?”

“Objection,” said the prosecutor. “He’s putting the law on trial.” 

“Not with that question, I’m not,” Ted interjected. “I have a right to impeach this witness.” 

The judge agreed. “He has the right to question the integrity of the prosecutorial witnesses. Objection overruled.” 

Pam said nothing. She stared at Baedes again, who was resting his face in his hands. 

“Who told you to arrest Damian Alvarez?” Ted glared at her and added, “Remember that you’re under oath.” 

Pam still said nothing. 

The judge said, “Answer the question.” 

“We were ordered to,” Pam squeaked. 

A murmur rippled through the room. Ted strutted back to his seat, as if that was the answer he had expected, and he did not try to push any further. In reality, he had taken a chance on that last question, because he didn’t really know the answer. And the first rule of cross-examination is never to ask a question unless you can already prove what the correct answer is. She could have lied outright, and there wouldn’t have been anything Ted could have done to contradict her. She could have said that they they had simply chosen to arrest Damian Alvarez, on a whim. But Ted had led up to his finale with strong questions. And when the time came, it looked like he knew more than he actually did. He got more than he had bargained for.

The prosecutor called Baedes to the stand. He established the chief as a law enforcement expert and basically allowed him to make a speech, while asking him questions. 

Baedes said, “People don’t realize that marijuana is the number one drug that sends teenagers to emergency rooms today. That shocks people. They think pot is some sort of a safe drug, but it isn’t. It’s the number two cause of car crashes. It’s a much worse drug than people know.

“Maybe they were ordered to arrest Damian Alvarez. So what? The standing order in Abe’s Turn is to arrest all drug criminals, all the time.

“That’s just tough love, which is not a bad way to go. It’s done a lot to make us safer. Since the War on Drugs, we’ve significantly reduced drug use in the United States. Teenage drug use is way down. And crime is way down. We have a record low crime rate in Abe’s Turn, and one of the reasons we do is that we’ve taken a lot of the slime off the streets and put them into prison. I’m glad that our cops are tough on drugs. 

“The reason crime has gone down is very simple, more people are in jail for longer periods of time. If we didn’t prosecute these crimes, everybody would start using it, because there wouldn’t be any penalty to it. They’d start thinking, I’ll go drive my car high on this or that. Imagine your brain surgeon toking up before your operation. Oh, that would be good for you, wouldn’t it? These drugs are not good for you. Fortunately, it’s against the law. 

“By the way,” he added, “it’s against the law in Boston, too.” 

Meanwhile, Damian sat looking innocent, his wife and kids staring angrily behind him. On cross-examination, Ted pointed out that studies show drug use is up, not down. He challenged the chief’s crazy scenarios, like a brain surgeon toking up before an operation. (Is that why brain surgeons operate drunk? Because alcohol is legal?) Ted also cited statistics that show that Baedes’s toking brain surgeon probably would not have gotten caught anyhow, at least not under the drug laws, no matter what the law said and no matter what the police did. 

The prosecution had done most of the hard work for Ted. They had all but given the jury a reason to acquit, by letting Ted impeach every single one of their witnesses. Ted additionally had witnesses who would testify that Dietrich was crooked. All that was left was to make Damian likable enough to make the jury want to acquit. And that, Ted was sure, Damian’s wife and brother would accomplish.

The prosecution rested its case. Court broke for lunch. As Ted as Michael walked down the hallway, they encountered Baedes and Dietrich chatting. Baedes suddenly stopped talking and glared at Ted. 

“I guess you’re pretty upset about my winning this case, huh, Sam?” Ted said. 

Baedes’s face betrayed his agitation, even to Ted. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved.” 

This perplexed Ted, and he formed his face into a mock pout. “Not get involved? With my own client?” 

“He wasn’t your client before we arrested him.” 

“Bull. You don’t know that.” 

“I do know that your client would have been better off without you.” 

“That almost sounds like a threat.” Ted smiled, taunting the chief. But inside, he was concerned. 

“Just a statement of fact,” Baedes replied. “You appreciate facts, don’t you? Like the fact that you just attacked two fine officers in there. And all to get a druggie off the hook.” 

“Yeah, well, you have no proof, and fortunately, in this country, we have a little thing called reasonable doubt. It protects the rights of the innocent.”

“You mean, the guilty,” Baedes growled.

“Fortunately, the jury sees things differently.” 

“You think so.” 

“Yes,” Ted replied. “I think so. Otherwise…” Ted lowered his voice and grinned. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so upset.” 

Baedes’s face turned red, and he underscored his words with stabs of his finger. “I hope you realize who you’re helping. That’s a druggie and a bully. He’s crossed the wrong people. And that puts you in as much danger as him.”

Ted chuckled and his eyebrows moved as he talked. “I think I’ll manage,” he said. 

In reality, Ted thought that last comment felt like a threat, and it worried him. 

He suddenly noticed that Michael had been standing quietly and listening, wearing a scowl. 

Baedes breathed deeply. “I’m just saying.” 

---

Clyde was planning Christmas dinner when she heard a knock at the front door. She opened it, revealing Michael’s big, round, blue-flashlight eyes staring at her with a strange look on them, a look she couldn’t identify. 

“Hey, you,” she said sweetly. Then she considered for a moment. “What’s wrong?” she said. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Sure,” Clyde said, and she showed him into the living room. “Is Ted alright?” 

“Oh, yes,” Michael said comfortingly. “They’re waiting for the jury. He doesn’t expect to be too late, because he’s sure the jurors have weekend plans.” He paused for Clyde to giggle. “He suggested the three of us eat out tonight.” 

“Sure, I guess so,” she said. “Yeah, I think going out would be fun. Do you know if Mira has any plans?” 

Clyde cringed as soon as the words came out of her mouth. She shouldn’t be asking Michael whether Mira has plans, because he wouldn’t know. And she didn’t even know how he might feel about the four of them going out together socially. They hadn’t gone out as a group in a long time. What’s more, Clyde knew how Michael felt about Mira, and she knew that Mira did not return his feelings. Michael acted as though it didn’t matter to him, and they had been able to keep their relationship professional. But to Clyde, the two had both seemed to be distant, for a long time now, as if they were just shells of their former selves. Clyde missed Michael’s witty repartee, of which she saw much less. Somehow, he seemed too serious and businesslike to be Michael. And Clyde missed connecting with Mira, which was as much Clyde’s fault as it was Mira’s. Clyde had already decided not to share her secret, not even with her closest friend. And the only person who knew her secret, Jane, seemed to be avoiding her calls. That worried Clyde in itself. But the thing that bothered her most was that she had no one to talk to about what she knew, and that there was very little she could do to help. She couldn’t even tell her beloved, her husband. All she could do was to gently suggest to him that he could consider using her so-called crazy theory to nourish that seed of reasonable doubt in the minds of Damian Alvarez’s jurors.

Michael didn’t seem to notice Clyde’s mention of Mira. “I wouldn’t know,” he simply said. He seemed to be thinking about something else. 

“Oh,” Clyde said, relieved. Then she cautiously proffered, “Do you mind if I give her a call?” 

“Sure, go right ahead.” Then he came back to life. “Hey, we haven’t gone out for a long time. The last time we got together socially was, what? Thanksgiving?” 

“That was social?” Clyde joked. “That was painful,” she said. 

“The food was good!” Michael said. 

“Oh would I that the food could have saved the day.” 

Michael sighed and looked at her tenderly. “Hey, don’t feel bad. It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have been so wrapped up in myself. I’m sorry.” 

Clyde was genuinely surprised. “Wha— It wasn’t your fault. We were all upset about something.” Then she added, “The problem is that we weren’t talking about what we were upset about.” She hardly believed those words had come out of her mouth, and she didn’t really know why she had said them.

“Well, I think we talk just fine. But…” 

Michael’s words trailed off mid-sentence. He seemed to be solving a deep problem in his mind. This was something Michael almost never did. Michael was always talking, always listening, always observing, always doing. He seemed to just know what he wanted to do, and he rarely planned anything, much less thought about it. 

“What is it?” Clyde asked. 

Michael thought for a moment longer, as if he were formulating his next words, very much unlike Michael. 

“How did you know?” he said. 

“How did I know… what?” 

“How did you know that Baedes has a thing against Jay and Damian, because he thinks they’re the top dogs? And how did you know that he wants to take them down a notch? And how did you know that he was the one who orchestrated the trumped-up drug bust, with the sole purpose of damaging Damian’s reputation and his business?” 

Clyde immediately went into fight-or-flight mode. She didn’t even think about it. Danger, her mind thought. Must lie.

“I didn’t know,” she said, “not for sure. That was just a crazy theory. Ted’s just playing lawyer games, that’s all.” 

“You’re lying,” Michael said. “That was too specific to be just a lucky guess. And this has nothing to do with Ted.” 

“What’s your damage, Michael?” Clyde looked at him as though she thought he was crazy. 

“Firstly, I can tell you’re lying, because I can see it in your eyes.” 

“What, are you a mind-reader now?” Clyde retorted. She didn’t care now whether he was upset by her brusqueness. In fact, she would have preferred him to become upset, because maybe it would distract him and get him off track.

Michael ignored her. “Secondly, I overheard Beady-eyes himself discussing the matter with one of his ego-inflated minions.” 

“Oh.” Clyde nodded. 

“You don’t seem surprised.” 

“Huh?” 

“You don’t seem surprised that your ‘crazy theory’ is actually correct.” He used air quotes around the words “crazy theory.” 

He continued. “See, now, I haven’t told anyone about this, not even Ted. I know the truth, because I happened to be in the right place at the right time—and because Beady-eyes is an idiot… But that’s another subject altogether. 

“What confuses me is, how did you know the truth, and before anyone else did?”

Clyde squinted her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t know. I just guessed. It was just a crazy guess, a crazy theory. A fluke. That’s all. It was just a fluke that I happened to be right. I can’t explain it. These things happen sometimes, you know?”

Michael paused a moment, and he nodded. “Okay. You don’t feel you can tell me. That’s okay. Maybe you don’t feel I can be trusted to keep your secret. But just think about this: I haven’t told anyone what I know. And I’m not going to tell. Because this is big, Clydene. And if you knew something, I know how we could have done something about it. But not if you don’t trust me.” 

Clyde pshawed at him. “What could you have done?” 

“I know people,” he simply replied. 

Clyde just stared at him, not knowing what to think, not knowing how to feel, not knowing how to respond. 

Her voice cracked as she said, “I’d better call Mira.” 

Michael nodded, and Clyde picked up the phone from the living room coffee table. She was about to dial, when Michael said, “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but…”

Clyde waited a moment before she said, “But what?” 

Michael continued. “You should know something.” 

She hung up the phone receiver. Her impatience grew. 

“Ted and I ran into Baedes at the courthouse.” Michael looked worried. 

Clyde’s imagination ran wild. Was Ted okay? Was their marriage still okay? Was Ted going to yell at her? Was he going to have her arrested? Or was he going to come home with bad news that would change their lives forever? Or even worse, would he come home and say nothing about it, while their relationship changed from under her? 

Michael still did not continue. 

“Well,” Clyde said, “you can’t just leave me hanging!” 

Michael chuckled. “I guess not.” He became somber again. “But it’s not good news. And I don’t think Ted realizes it’s serious. But I’m beginning to think it is serious.” 

Clyde glued her eyes to Michael’s. 

“We ran into Beady-eyes at the courthouse, and he threatened Ted.” 

Clyde was nonplussed. She was not aware of any plan Baedes had against her husband, other than to bully Ted’s clients more than he bullied anyone else. 

“What did he say he was going to do?” Clyde asked. 

“He didn’t say. He didn’t make any direct threat, nothing that would stand up in court, even if we could prove that he actually said it. But I took it as a threat, against Ted and against Jay and Damian. Beady-eyes is looking for revenge. To him, it’s personal.”

In her mind, Clyde scanned through the facts she knew. Beady-eyes knew who the thug was who had assaulted Damian. He knew that this thug was associated with WBH, and with organized crime, because the thug had told him so. But he let the thug go free, because in his view, J&D were even worse. And he believed in fighting fire with fire, as long as he could get away with it. Yes, that sounds like it could be a personal crusade. And the level of harassment they’d already received did not yet accomplish their enemies’ goals.

She looked back at Michael’s face. 

Quietly, he said, “What should I do?” 

“Jay and Damian should go on vacation. Or failing that, they should step up security at their offices. It’s likely that they may get another visit from their friendly neighborhood goons.” 

“I see,” Michael said. 

Clyde continued. “And don’t expect any help from the police in assisting you, or in catching the creeps who have been terrorizing them. The cops could be parked across the street, and you couldn’t pull them away from their donuts.” 

Michael chortled, but his teeth appeared to be clenched. 

“In fact, the only reason they wouldn’t join in the terrorizing is because they don’t want to get their hands dirty.” Then she corrected herself. “Baedes doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.”

Michael seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “Fuck,” he whispered. 

Clyde considered for a moment whether she should say more. After all, everything she had said could be chalked up to mere theory and coincidence. But it was some coincidence, because it would all turn out to be true. 

“I know the name of the head thug,” she said. 

Michael looked surprised to hear this. But he said nothing. 

“One more thing,” Clyde said. 

“What’s that?” 

“We didn’t have this conversation.” 

Without missing a beat, and dead serious, Michael said, “You mean about inviting Mira to dinner tonight? Why not? Because that’s the only conversation I remember having.”

Clyde hammered the point home. “I mean it,” she said. “You can’t even talk to Ted— especially not Ted. He wouldn’t understand.” She felt sick to her stomach.

“One of the rules,” Michael explained, “is that I don’t tell you who I talk to. And you don’t tell me. And I don’t tell anyone that I talked to you, and you don’t tell anyone that you talked to me.” 

He continued, “I’ll make sure Jay and Damian get the help they need.” 

---

Jay Alvarez returned home with his wife and kids, returned home from his brother’s victory dinner—it appears the jury believed either in official corruption or in jury nullification—to find the house lights on and a strange car just barely visible in the dark of the driveway. 

Mrs. Alvarez gawked at the scene and said, “Who’s that?” 

“I don’t know,” Jay said, as he drove right by. 

He hadn’t told the rest of the family about Michael’s call. Michael had poured out his heart-felt congratulations to them. As always, Jay could tell he was sincere, even over the phone. But Michael had sounded disturbed, fearful, in what he said next. He suggested Jay and Damian get in touch with a private investigator friend of his, “to keep those creeps from harassing you any more.” Michael said he had already briefly discussed the situation with his friend the private-eye, who went by the unlikely name of “Samson.” 

Now, Jay turned his car down a side street opposite the house, and pulled over to the side of the road. He could still see his home behind him. There was activity within, which he could discern from the moving shadow on the window shades, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He pulled from his breast pocket the scrap of paper he had scrawled on: “Samson, Private Investigator,” followed by 10 digits in groups of 3, 3, and 4, each separated by dashes.

Screw this, he thought. He told his wife to stay in the car with the kids, and to call the police and tell them their house was being robbed. Jay sneaked across the street and around to the basement entrance. Inside, he could hear above him heavy steps, interspersed with the loud crashes of destruction. He pulled his safe out from under the basement steps, fumbled with his keys for a moment in the dark before he found the right one, unlocked the box, flipped it open, dug under papers and removed a semi-automatic pistol and magazine, loaded the magazine into the pistol, cocked the loading mechanism.

He breathed in the cold, dry air and carefully ascended the staircase. With each step, he feared a rattle or creak that might betray his approach. But the stairs did not creak, and he had no reason to fear giving up the advantage of surprise. The feeble sounds of his careful footfalls simply could not match the booms of the demolition of his personal property, the violation of his home, the invasion of his sacred castle. 

Now at the top step, he listened. He needn’t have done so. He had been listening with each step on each stair. The wrecking had clearly finished in the living room to his right and had moved into his den, on the left. This was perfect. 

Jay carefully turned the handle and nudged the door open a fraction of an inch. Then grasping his gun with both hands, at the ready, he pushed open the door. He pointed the gun at his attacker, whom he immediately recognized, whom he had half expected to be there. 

Jay stood in the over-sized hallway, from a vantage point that allowed him to see most of the den. Half the room was in shambles, knickknacks shattered, furniture in pieces, his home theater system partially dismantled, and not the proper way. Jay stared down his brother’s attacker, a large, muscular man in brown leather, from the safe end of the barrel of his .45, just as he had done weeks before.

But this time, the attacker could not escape out the back exit. The large man continued swinging a bat at the objects in the room. He probably could have made a pig’s breakfast of things in a matter of seconds. But he seemed bent on utter decimation, and he was taking his time, going over everything thoroughly. His back to Jay, he did not notice the loaded pistol pointing at him. 

Adrenaline rushed through Jay’s body, his senses acute, his objective within reach. Surprisingly, he wasn’t out for revenge. He didn’t want a mess. His mind was on automatic, instantly accessing the many hours he had spent training, practicing, studying for a situation just as this, what he had originally justified as caution and mere sport. What happened next passed in only a few seconds. 

Jay ordered the man to drop his weapon. 

The man turned to face Jay and said, “Okay. I don’t want any trouble.” Then he dropped his worn, wooden bat on the floor. It was scratched and even chipped in a few places, and it generated a heavy kerthunk as it hit the floor.

Jay glanced at the bat. Then he saw the man reach under his jacket. Jay’s next move was pure reflex. He didn’t even think about it. He aimed and fired. Maybe he missed his intended target. Maybe he didn’t. The attacker’s gun fell to the floor as his head flung forward. The gunshot rang in Jay’s ears for what seemed a full minute, as splotches of blood splattered against the opposite wall. 

---

As it turns out, the FBI had been after this thug, who went by the name “the Ripper”—many people speculated because he had a lack of imagination, but only God truly knows why—for felonies reported in three states. Apparently, he had been semi-freelance muscle with his own ties to organized crime. No link was ever proven between him and J&D’s competitors, but WBH coincidentally changed ownership shortly thereafter. One of the more controversial radio talk-show hosts even speculated that WBH owner had been called back by “his mob boss” for so totally flubbing the operation.

Jay’s story hit the TV news, complete with footage of Damian’s assault from the J&D security camera. (It was a digital camera, and Damian had kept a copy of the footage on disc.) Commentators argued whether Jay was justified in shooting the intruder in the head as he did, or whether he even was aiming at the man’s head or at some other part of his body. In any case, it was hard for anyone to garner any sympathy for the thug. And because the Ripper was armed, the law after much hemming and hawing eventually came down on Jay’s side, and even Baedes couldn’t fix it (though he did promise to keep a close eye on the Alvarez brothers). 

Ted and Clyde held off on Christmas dinner, until December 31. That night, they had a grand New Year’s party: Michael, Mira, Jay and Damian and their families, and numerous others whom Ted and Michael knew. All left 10 pounds heavier than when they arrived. 

The only person missing, from Clydene’s perspective, was Jane. Weeks earlier, Clyde had quietly called Jane and invited her and hers to New Year’s 2008. Jane just as quietly had replied that she didn’t think they should see each other any more. Clyde didn’t remember the last time she had been dumped. 

Clyde carried her glass of merlot, meandered back to her office. Without turning on the light, she shuffled through the room, to the window. In the dark, the room felt cramped, closed in. But at the window, she met a bright half-moon that sent flashes glinting off the dark liquid in her glass. She sipped. Through pursed lips, she breathed in its aroma and flavor. She closed her eyes as she savored undertones of cherry and oak.

“Not enjoying the party?” Michael said from behind her. “You made it possible, as usual.” 

She turned to face him. “Oh, I was just thinking.” She slid her index finger around the rim of her wine glass. 

“About what?” Michael asked. 

Clyde paused a moment, to put her thoughts into words. “Did you ever dream about moving somewhere else? Somewhere far, far away?” 

“Somewhere where everything is simpler?” He seemed to know exactly what she was feeling. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Why do we stay here?” 

Michael looked out the window for a moment. Then he said, “Each of us is who he is. And you’re going to be the same person you are, no matter where you live. You’re going to act the same way, and you’re going to feel the same way. You can’t escape who you are. 

“But somewhere else, you may not be in a position to do anything about it. That might make things simpler. But it doesn’t make anything any better.” 

Clyde nodded, and the two stared out the window a while longer. 

When Clyde turned around, Ted was watching her from the hallway.