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‘crazy woman’ was bothering him?”
    He started to spread his hands, but the shackles around his wrists prevented the I-don’t-know gesture. “He say she call and call. He very angry.”
    â€œDid he give a name?”
    â€œNo. He just call her bad word.” Deeply uncomfortable, he looked away again, tried not to listen to the shrieks outside.
    Mrs. Hillman had described the woman as skimpily clad. “This bad word, was it ‘whore’?”
    Tesema seemed ready to faint from embarrassment. “You nice lady. Please not to talk like that.”
    â€œBut was that the word he used?”
    â€œYes,” he whispered, unable to meet my eyes.
    The woman finally stopped her caterwauling, but the man continued to curse. From what I could make out, he’d gutted the man they were arguing about. But at last Tesema had given me something concrete to go on. There would be a record of the calls to and from Ernst’s house. In the meantime, Tesema was doing himself no favors by sticking to his improbable story.
    â€œIf there was no other client, and if you did show up for your regular appointment at Ernst’s house yesterday morning, you probably got some of his blood on you. Innocently, of course.” As had I. Last night, when I undressed for bed, I discovered blood smears on my Reeboks. I threw them in the garbage with my bloodied shirt.
    Someone in the jail had been coaching him, because he admitted to nothing. “Police took shoes and all clothes I wear.”
    That didn’t sound good. It was my guess that he had arrived on schedule, found Ernst, checked to see if he was still alive—bloodying himself in the meantime—then fled. “Mr. Tesema, if there is one spot of blood anywhere on your clothes, they will be able to determine exactly whose it is through DNA typing. Do you understand?”
    â€œThey can do this?” His words were little more than a mumble.
    Didn’t he have a television set? On most cop shows, which I couldn’t bear to watch, crime labs processed DNA samples within minutes. “Oh, yes. The police can also pull Ernst’s phone records to see who called him in the past few weeks. For instance, when he didn’t show up on set, Warren called him twice from his cell before asking me to check on him. There’ll be a record of those calls. If you, as you said you did, phoned to tell him you were too busy to show up for work, there’ll be a record of that call, too. If you didn’t…” Home care agencies preferred their care-givers to call them to report any cancellations, not the client: that way they could send out a replacement. His story stunk. “How long have you been Ernst’s care-giver?”
    â€œSeven…no, eight months. Man before me, he quit. Said Kapitan Ernst too mean.”
    Which begged the question of why Tesema was still hanging around. “During your time with him, how often did you miss your regular appointment?”
    When he looked back up at me, his eyes were filled with outrage. “Never! I not do that! He need my help!”
    I gave him a grim smile. “Do you see, Mr. Tesema, how easy it is to find out if a person is lying? You told the police that you were ‘too busy’ to show up yesterday, but you just admitted to me that you never missed an appointment.”
    He hung his head. “I not kill Kapitan Ernst.”
    That part I believed, not that my opinion made any difference. Tesema’s utter transparency made him a prosecutor’s wet dream. He needed a good criminal defense attorney, but with his lack of funds would probably wind up with the usual public defender: young, inexperienced, overwhelmed. “My advice is to stop listening to your cell mates and tell your lawyer the truth. That’s the only way he can help you.”
    â€œOnly rich men have lawyer.”
    â€œThis is America, Mr. Tesema. The court will appoint one for