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five-two-one, three-eight, two-seven-five-nine.”
    Name, rank, and serial number. Fantastic. She withheld a groan and leaned an elbow on the table between them. Wobbly, it rocked. “In case no one has told you, you’re not a prisoner of war, Burke. But you are in an enormous amount of trouble. Would you kindly cut the antics and elaborate on the event that led to your arrest and tell me who beat you?
    Was it the Heavies, or the guards?” She hated the thought, but-Burke was a coward and traitor so it could have been either group. Her money was on the Heavies.
    “Burke, Adam B. Captain, U.S. Air Force. Serial number five-two-one, three-eight, two-seven-five-nine.”
    Tracy grimaced, her patience shot. “Look, it’s obvious you don’t want me here. Well, I don’t want to be here, either. The truth is, I was drafted to defend you. I have no choice, and you have no choice. Live with it.
    “We both know you’re guilty. But maybe we can convince the jury you made a bad judgment call or you had faulty navigational equipment. We’ll find an honest angle and work for a sentence reduction to life in prison-if you’ll help me by answering my damn questions.”
    “You’re a real piece of work, counselor. You know only the charges, my name, rank, and serial number, and you have me serving life.” He motioned toward the door with his cuffed hands. “Get the hell out of here. I need an attorney, not a piece of fluff posing as one.”
    Her lips tightened to a thin line. “I am an attorney, Burke. A damn good one.”
    “I need a damn good one who does her homework. You don’t.” He scowled, stood up, spun his chair around, and then straddled it, straining his shackles until the chains snapped tight. “Hell, I know more about you than you’ve bothered to learn about me.”
    “I sincerely doubt it.” She tilted her crooked nose upward.
    He hooked his arms over the back of his chair, his grim expression dark and dangerous. “You’re the widow of Matthew Keener, one of two heirs to the Keener Chemical fortune. You worked your way through law school and married the youngest heir, Matthew, in your junior year. In your senior year, you and Matthew were in a car accident. His blood alcohol level was 2.5, well above the legal limit. You were five months pregnant at the time. Matthew was killed and you were seriously injured. You delivered a daughter, Abby. Four months premature was just too much, and she died within minutes of being born.
    That hurt. He knew it, and was taking pleasure in it. The smartass probably thought she’d asked for it, coming in here with preconceived notions about his guilt.
    “The senior heir to the family fortune, your domineering brother-in-law, Paul, handled the funerals, which you couldn’t attend because you were still hospitalized. Correct so far, counselor?”
    She sent him a cold glare and a warning. “That’s enough, Burke.”
    “But hardly the whole story.” He plowed on, tapping his fingers against the back of the folding chair. The metal pinged against his blunt nails. “After losing Matthew and Abby-and probably to stop Paul’s interference in your life-you joined the Air Force, intending to make it a career. You’re now up for promotion to major-Board meets in about a month, right?-and you’re up for Career Status selection. By the way, that’s a bit harder to get these days than it once was. You get one shot at it.”
    He slid her an icy smile. “Knowing your distaste for research, I thought you might be interested in that piece of information.”
    She held her silence, and her glare.
    Adam cocked his head. “What I don’t know for fact and I seriously doubt you’ve considered-is, if everyone but God thinks I’m guilty, then why would Command insist on assigning such a high-profile, volatile case to a junior Staff JAG like you?”
    A dam paused a beat, and the question swelled in her mind. By all rights and logic, senior officers should be prosecuting and defending him