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tell me."
     
    He started to shake his head and then stopped. His
eyes opened wide. "What do you mean?"
     
    "Travis Quentin confessed. He told the police
everything. How you had him brought to your office, how you dropped
all the charges against him, how you had an envelope delivered to
him the day he got out of the county jail with instructions about
where to find her and where to find the money you were paying
him."
     
    A look of astonishment spread across his face. "And
that's the reason you were appointed a special prosecutor?"
    Sliding out of the booth, he threw his napkin down on
the table and shook his head. "You've got a major problem on your
hands, Antonelli."
     
    "What's that?"
     
    "I didn't do it."
     
     

Chapter Six
     
     
    "What else was he going to say?" I asked, as Horace
glowered at me.
     
    "Why did you let him say anything? What was the
point?
     
    "I wanted to see his reaction when he heard it for
the first time. Before he had time to think about what he was going
to say."
     
    I was sprawled on a chair in front of Horace's desk.
He was on the other side of the room, pouring a cup of
    coffee. "Sure you don't want some?" he asked, as he
sank into the leather chair behind the desk. Cautiously, he brought
the chipped mug to his mouth. "It's been a long day." He sighed.
"The motion calendar was murder. Everybody always has to make their
record. Sometimes, I think that's all we do on the bench, read the
same canned briefs, listen to the same tired arguments from a bunch
of hollow-eyed lawyers too scared of making a mistake to say or
write anything original, or even halfway interesting."
     
    He started to take another sip, and then changed his
mind, his eyes full of malicious wonder. "You should have seen it,"
he said. "One of those guys from the public defender's office—you
know the type: washed-out white guys with terminal depression—is
droning on and on, making an argument on a motion to suppress,
repeating almost verbatim what he had written in his brief."
     
    With a merciless talent for mimicry, Horace let his
head sag to the side as he dragged his eyes listlessly around
the
    room, darting them away each time they were about to
land on me. " 'This issue was decided three years ago in the case
of... ,' " he said, imitating an exhausted voice that spoke only at
the end of each labored exhaled breath.
     
    His head snapped up. "I couldn't help myself," he
explained. " 'Isn't that the case that was just overruled?' " I
asked. For the first time he actually looked at me. Christ, it was
like watching a corpse get a transfusion, blood rising into his
face. I turned to the deputy DA. He didn't know anything either,
but you don't think he was going to admit it, do you? Hell, no!" he
roared.
     
    " 'Is that your recollection, Mr. Krueger?' I asked.
The little weasel! He answers, 'I'm sure your Honor's memory
    is better than my own.' "
     
    Horace shook his large graying head with sad-eyed
derision. "I turned back to the public defender. 'And what's your
recollection, counselor?' Now, if he had stood his ground, if he
had been prepared, if he really knew what he was talking about, he
could have said, 'No, your Honor, the case has not been overruled,
it's still good law.' Instead, all he can do is fumble around,
letting everyone see he thinks the case he's relying on isn't good
anymore."
     
    Holding his mug with both hands, Horace quietly
sipped some coffee. Under half-closed eyes he stared at something
in the distance. "There used to be a few lawyers around who didn't
spend all their time worrying about themselves," he said pensively.
"Not so many years ago, a DA would have corrected me immediately.
That it didn't help his case wouldn't have mattered. We were all
supposed to follow the law, and it didn't matter whether correcting
someone else's mistake cost you a temporary advantage."
     
    I pulled myself up in the chair. "Things change."
     
    His mouth turned down at the corners as he thought
about it a