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sometime waitress. No criminal record.”
    â€œBol, meanwhile, is part of a group of recent Sudanese immigrants. His English is marginal. Work skills, apparently nil.” I shrug. “Maybe in Sudan, he’s a genius. He’s probably the greatest cow herder in the history of the African continent.”
    â€œIn Nashville, Tennessee, he’s herds carts at Wal-Mart.”
    I lean back in my chair, thinking that Rayburn has Stillman pegged about right. He’s a courtroom machine, as merciless as the angel of death. “No murder case is perfect,” I say. “What’s wrong with this one?”
    Stillman runs his hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. “There was no forcible entry,” Stillman says. “Apparently, she let him in.”
    â€œWe stipulate that the two knew each other. They had been publicly arguing. She called him that night, probably to settle things, have it out. She just didn’t count on him killing her.”
    Stillman nods. “That works.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œMotive,” he says. “We know they were arguing, but we don’t know what about.”
    I smile. “Apparently, Stillman, you are not going to be a total loss on this case.” He relaxes, and I realize that getting my approval is important to him. I hadn’t actually considered that possibility, given his officious posing. “So here’s how I work, Stillman. I only use investigators for surveillance, not to interview.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean I go to the locations. I talk to witnesses myself. I don’t show up in court depending on a summary somebody wrote with a twenty-nine-cent Bic pen. I look the witnesses in the eyes and make up my own mind.”
    Stillman nods. “OK.”
    â€œThat means you and I are going to track down everybody and anybody who can tell us why Bol and Hartlett hated each other.”
    Stillman flashes his TV smile. “Rayburn says we’re going for the maximum.”
    â€œWe all agreed.”
    â€œSo you’re OK with it?”
    â€œDon’t mess with me, Stillman,” I say quietly.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean you’re asking for David. He asked you to sound me out.” Stillman smiles, knowing he’s busted. “Listen to me, Stillman. Moses Bol sat in his apartment and premeditated the murder of an American citizen. He drove the ten blocks to her apartment, entered the premises, raped her, then brutally beat her to death by pounding her head with a weighted pedestal. It took six blows to finish the job, which, as far as I’m concerned, is like reloading a weapon. We are going to try him for murder in the first degree, and we are going to ask that the jury sentence him to death.”
    With those words, quiet settles on my office. After a while, Stillman nods. “So what about this new bail hearing? He’s already been denied one, right?”
    I shrug. “Rita West tries anything she can to get her clients out of jail, and I respect her for it. She’s dreaming on this one, however. We’ll be there fifteen minutes. The judge will reconfirm our trial date at that point, and we’ll take it from there.”
    â€œAnything you want me to do in the meantime?”
    I nod. “Yeah. Go get me a Coke.”
    Â 
    I ’ M ELBOW - DEEP in Bol’s files when Carl drifts by after lunch. He comes into my office, large and noisy, and sits down in a chair opposite my desk, spilling over the sides a little, like a friendly bear. “I just heard about Stillman. Sorry.”
    Every day Carl’s retirement creeps closer, I realize more how much I’m going to miss him. “It’s an improvement over you, Sasquatch.”
    â€œHe’s smart, Thomas. He’ll be an asset on this kid from Sudan. Who I met, incidentally.”
    I look up, surprised. “You met him?”
    â€œWhen they brought him in for