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cigarette?”
    â€œBoth.” He laughed. “Smoke now, meet later.”
    â€œI’m done.”
    He looked in the mirror, touched his hair to make sure every strand was slicked in place, stood up and shook my hand. “Whatever you’re considering, it’s always a pleasure for me to work with you.”
    â€œThanks, Anthony,” I said. But this was one time when the pleasure would likely be all his.
    ******
    After I left his office I went to Walgreen’s and bought a pack of Nicorette gum. Next I stopped at Java Joe’s and got a coffee to go—black and shiny as an oil slick, no milk, no sugar, no Coffee-mate powder floating on top. I took the coffee and gum to my office, waved to Anna who was talking on the phone, picked up the mail, went into my office and closed the door. There was nothing in the mail that couldn’t wait, so I sipped at my coffee, unwrapped the stick of gum, popped it in my mouth, picked up a pen and began drawing diamonds down the side of a yellow legal pad.
    What I’d deduced from my meeting with Anthony Saia was that the weapon could have been a thirty-eight and that only one bullet had been fired. Saia had neither admitted nor denied those facts, but I knew his reactions well enough to know when I’d stumbled on the truth.
    Most gangbangers got off a few rounds, if only for the pleasure of doing it. Maybe there had been only one shot because a small hand had been holding the gun. I didn’t know whether Cheyanne was guilty, but she knew too much to be completely innocent. Saia had made it clear that the person he wanted to prosecute was Ron Cade, but as far as I knew all he had working for him was a witness. Ron Cade might have had a motive for the shooting, but there was no weapon yet. As for the witness, who knew what his motives were?
    I filled in the blanks in the first diamond and moved on down the page. I had agreed to represent a thirteen-year-old girl who might or might not be guilty of murder, who might or might not know something that would put Ron Cade away. The one question I had to keep asking myself was, What was in her best interest?
    ******
    After work I stopped at the double-wide to make sure my client was staying home. A truck with ladders attached to the roof was parked in front of the trailer on the spot where some people might have planted a lawn. I knocked at the screen door, which had a metal frame and a dead-bolt lock. That was good. A guy with a chain tattooed on his forearm answered my knock—that wasn’t so good. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt. His name, Leo, was embroidered on the pocket on one side of his chest and the name of the company he worked for, Coss Plumbing, was embroidered on the other. That and the ladder made him an air-conditioning repairman, one of those jobs that takes men in and out of women’s houses. His tight shirt showed the beginnings of a belly, but his arms were muscular and hard. He had short dark hair and a cautious smile. I could hear a TV playing somewhere inside the trailer and a baby crying.
    â€œ I’m Neil Hamel,” I said. “I live down the street.”
    â€œLeo Ortega. Danny’s father.”
    â€œIs Sonia here?”
    â€œShe went to work.”
    â€œHow about Cheyanne?”
    â€œShe’s here. Come on in.”
    â€œI’d rather talk to her outside, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œSonia doesn’t want her to leave the house.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I’m her lawyer.”
    â€œCheyanne!” he yelled.
    She came to the door with Miranda wailing in her arms. “Could you turn the crying off, please?” I asked.
    â€œOkay.” She turned the key.
    I walked her away from the trailer to the far side of Leo Ortega’s truck. “Have you been staying home?” I asked her.
    â€œAre you kidding me?” She poked the ground with the toe of her running shoe. “My mom don’t let me go nowhere.