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with media people would have been reason enough to adjourn his other cases by phone and show up on time.
    â€œHe’s going to piss off the judge before we even open our mouths on bail.”
    Before Dana could reply, an ebony-black man with a shiny shaved head stepped up and said, “We have to talk.”
    â€œDo we?” I answered, raising an eyebrow. “And you are…?”
    â€œLuke Stoddard,” he replied, “assistant United States attorney.”
    The enemy. The man trying to put my brother in jail. But if he was ready to talk, that meant what he really wanted was a deal. A deal that would cut Ron loose, in return for … what?
    I nodded my willingness to discuss the matter and followed him down the corridor to a spot where the others couldn’t hear.
    I jumped the gun, letting my opponent know I intended to control the situation. “What do you want?”
    A small smile crossed Stoddard’s smooth face. “I want Jan Gebhardt.”
    Not a news flash. “In return for what?”
    He shrugged. “A clean walk for your brother.”
    I refused to make the obvious remark. “All charges dismissed? He leaves town and forgets the whole thing?”
    â€œNot exactly,” the prosecutor replied. “There’s the little matter of his testimony at trial.” His smile grew broader. I was reminded of a poem from my childhood, about the fish with the deep-sea smile. The smile of the big fish who always eludes the hook, who swallows up the smaller fish.
    â€œRon can’t add anything to your case,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “He was a passenger in the van.” A mere passenger was the way I intended to phrase it when addressing the judge. “He didn’t know the other passengers were illegals.”
    â€œIt was his van, Counselor,” Stoddard reminded me. “That makes him a little more than a passenger. Besides,” he went on, “those original charges of smuggling illegals pale beside the murder of a federal officer.”
    â€œRon was nowhere near the scene of the crime,” I pointed out. “Jan was on her own during the whole thing.”
    â€œBut he was waiting for her back at the church. It’s my guess he knew exactly where she was and what she was doing.”
    My face reflected my complete astonishment. Stoddard smiled his deep-sea smile and said, “It seems your client hasn’t told you everything.” He put the slightest possible emphasis on the word “client,” managing to needle me not only for walking into court unprepared but for being the kind of sister whose brother hadn’t seen fit to tell her the whole story.
    Before I could reply, the prosecutor said, “Think about it, Ms. Jameson. We’ll talk again after the arraignment. You and your client may see things a little bit differently then.”
    He strode down the hall and into the courtroom. I followed, thinking as I walked. Would a deal be so bad? All Ron had to do was deny any knowledge of Jan’s intent. Whatever went wrong was her fault, not his, so why should he suffer?
    The first two rows of the courtroom were filled with reporters. I scanned them, hoping to recognize Ted Havlicek. It would be nice to have a friendly ear into which I could drop pro-defense tidbits.
    Ron’s chair sat at the defense table. I had barely reached my seat when the cell door opened and out came a phalanx of guards, all surrounding a prisoner in a faded print dress.
    I stared frankly and openly at the woman whose untimely return from the dead had caused all this trouble.
    Thin, tense, her mouth working and her fingers idly twisting a hank of stringy hair, she looked like a haggard prostitute emerging from the drunk tank. Her face was pale as oatmeal and there were old track marks on her skinny arms. A fine shiver ran through her body as I watched her; it was as if my eyes had somehow touched her in a sensitive