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you.”
    Tesema shook his head. “Cell mates, they tell me about these free lawyers. They say I be lucky if lawyer remembers my name.”
    Having observed the often less-than-scintillating performances of some public defenders, I didn’t argue his point. Still, I tried to sound optimistic. “Don’t give up so fast. For all we know, you might get lucky and draw someone good.”
    â€œI not that lucky.”
    Another sad truth. “Have you called your wife yet? Does she know about your situation?”
    The visiting room was close and muggy, but the large drop of moisture on his cheek resembled a tear more than it did perspiration. “I try, but jail not allow call to Addis Ababa. Cousin there have phone, not wife.”
    I wondered if there was an Ethiopian consulate in Arizona. Probably not, and for the same reason we didn’t have a Chad consulate nor a Moravian one: not enough Chads or Moravians in town to make the cost outlay worthwhile. We used to have what passed for a Swedish consulate down at the Volvo dealership, but the car salesman/diplomat moved to Oregon after suffering through his first one-hundred-and-fifteen-degree Scottsdale summer.
    â€œI’ll call the Ethiopian consulate in New York, Mr. Tesema, and see what they can do for you. And I’ll…” I would what? Make sure his wife and children were fed? “I’ll talk to someone about her situation and find out how much she needs…” I trailed off. Why was talking about money so embarrassing?
    Not for Tesema. “She need my money. I get paycheck yesterday but not wire home before police arrest me. Paycheck in my room, on dresser. It already signed. Roommates show you where I keep. You cash and send to her, but not to tell her I in jail. That make her worry.”
    â€œI can’t cash your check!”
    â€œThen my babies starve.”
    Getting my hands on his check might be more of a problem than Tesema realized, since the police had probably sealed off his room during their search for evidence. It was a good thing I still had contacts at Scottsdale PD. With a growing sense of unease, I took down the address of Tesema’s apartment, where he lived with three other Ethiopian nationals, as well as instructions on how to wire money to his wife in Addis Ababa. “Write a note authorizing me to act on your behalf and I’ll see what I can do.”
    â€œThat mean I your client now?”
    I fought off the impulse to pull out my hair. With Jimmy leaving, I needed clients with money, not sad stories. But then the woman down the corridor started up again, screaming that I-loved-him-more-than-your-lazy-ass-and-he-was-bigger-than-you-anyway, and for some reason, when I opened my mouth to tell Tesema no, the word that emerged was, “Yes.”
    His gloom vanished and he gave me a blinding smile. “You an OK woman.”
    First he’d called me blessed, now I was just OK. At least he was becoming more realistic.
    ***
    Upon my arrival back at Desert Investigations, I called Reverend Melvin Giblin, my ninth or tenth foster father—I’d had so many during my childhood I’d lost count—and after the usual how-are-you’s, told him about Tesema’s situation and his family’s needs. As soon as the Rev promised to look into the matter, I thanked him and rang off. Then, switching over to the Beth Osmon/Jack Sherwood case, I phoned Hertz and reserved a BMW for tomorrow, a Lexus for the next day. That accomplished, I punched in the number for Scottsdale PD and left a message on Captain Kryzinski’s voice mail. Then I stared at my partner’s back and tried to figure out what I could say to keep him from leaving me.
    To my relief, Kryzinski returned my call immediately and asked me to come to the station. Happy to escape from the tension in my own office, I jumped into my Jeep and headed up Hayden Road for Scottsdale North.
    T. S. Eliot might have said April