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actually begin? I thought about the power outage that had occurred two days ago, followed by the bomb explosion and the threatening message that had read This was a test. Mala Sangre. And I wondered if Kingfisher had already left the Hall through the drain in his shower, El Chapo style.
    His trial had been postponed three times so far, but I had dressed for court nonetheless. I was wearing my good charcoal-gray pants, my V-neck silk sweater under a Ralph Lauren blazer, and my flat-heeled Cole Haan shoes. My hair gleamed and I’d even put on lipstick. That’s for you, Mr. Kingfisher.
    Conklin had just dunked his empty coffee container into the trash can when Len Parisi’s name lit up on my console.
    I said to Conklin, “What now?” and grabbed the phone.
    Parisi said, “Boxer, you and Conklin got a second?”
    “Sure. What’s up?”
    “Counsel for the defense is in my office.”
    “Be right there.” I hung up, then said to Conklin, “I’m guessing Sierra wants to change his plea to insanity.”
    He said, “From your lips to God’s ears.”
    It was a grim thought. In the unlikely event that Kingfisher could be found guilty because of mental disease or defect, he would be institutionalized and one day might be set free.
    “There’s just no way,” said Conklin.
    “Wanna bet?”
    Conklin dug into his wallet and tossed a single onto the desk. I topped his dollar bill with one of mine and weighed down our bet with a stapler.
    Then we booked it down the stairs and along the second-floor corridor at a good pace, before entering the maze of cubicles outside the DA’s office. Parisi’s office door was open. He signaled for us to come in.
    Jake Penney, the King’s new attorney, sat in the chair beside Parisi’s oversized desk. He was about thirty-five and was good-looking in a flawless, The Bachelor kind of way. Because Cindy researched him and reported back, I knew he was on the fast track at a topflight law firm.
    Kingfisher had hired one of the best.
    Conklin and I took the sofa opposite Parisi, and Penney angled his chair toward us.
    He said, “I want to ask my client to take Elena’s offer. He changes his plea to guilty, and he goes to a maximum-security prison within a few hours’ drive of his wife’s residence. That’s win-win. Saves the people the cost of a trial. Keeps Mr. Sierra in the USA with no death penalty and a chance to see his kids every now and again. It’s worth another try.”
    Parisi said to Conklin and me, “I’m okay with this, but I wanted to run it by you before I gave Mr. Penney an okay to offer this deal to Sierra.”
    I said, “You’ll be in the room with them, Len?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Mr. Penney should go through metal detection and agree to be patted down before and after his meeting.”
    “Okay, Mr. Penney?”
    “Of course.”
    There was a clock on the wall, the face a hand-drawn illustration of a red bulldog.
    The time was 8:21.
    If the King’s attorney could make a deal for his client, it had to be now or never.

Chapter 30
    Conklin and I waited in Parisi’s office as the second hand swiped the bulldog’s face and time whizzed around the dial.
    What was taking so long? Deal? Or no deal?
    I was ready to go up to the seventh floor and crash the conference when Parisi and Penney came through the door.
    “He wouldn’t buy it,” Parisi said. He went to his closet and took out his blue suit jacket.
    Penney said, “He maintains his innocence. He wants to walk out of court a free man.”
    It took massive willpower for me not to roll my eyes and shout, Yeah, right. Of course he’s innocent!
    Parisi shrugged into his jacket, tightened the knot in his tie, glanced at the clock. Then he said, “I told Sierra about the attack on you two by Mala Sangre thugs. I said that if the violence stops now, and if he is convicted, I will arrange for him to do his time at the prison of his choice, Pelican Bay. He said, ‘Okay. I agree. No more violence.’ We shook on it. For