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to wield a bat? Things like that had happened before, especially with the mentally ill. Ruth had told her that Cam was autistic, but there was something else, too. What was it , she wondered.
    “Does he have a doctor, a social worker, someone I could see about his—his condition?”
    Ruth nodded. “He sees a social worker at North Shore Mental Health Center. I’ll put you in touch with her. And our new lawyer. My parish priest talked him into taking the case.”
    “That’s a good sign,” Georgia said. “Ruth... can I talk to Cam?”
    “You can try,” she motioned. “But don’t expect much.”
    Georgia moved and sat directly across from Cam. His rocking sped up. “Hello. I’m a friend of your sister’s. I’m here to help you. Do you think you can tell me your name?”
    Cam looked down. He kept rocking but his movements slowed.
    “My name is Georgia. Like the state. I heard you naming the states before. That was very good.”
    No response. Cam seemed alternately terrified and mollified by the chaos inside his mind.
    “I’d like to get to know you better.”
    Nothing.
    Georgia sighed. “Okay. Maybe another time. I’d like to come back and visit. Would that be okay?”
    Cam blinked.
    Georgia looked over at Ruth.
    “By the way,” Ruth said, “in case you’re wondering, I have some money from a trust fund that my grandparents set up for Cam. I’m going to use it to pay the lawyer. And you. There won’t be much left afterwards, but I—well...”
    “You’re a good sister.”
    “That’s not it,” Ruth persisted. “I just can’t stand the thought that he might be locked up for the rest of his life for something that—well—I know he didn’t do. Where would he have gotten the bat, anyway? He doesn’t own one. Hasn’t for years.”
    Cam rocked back and forth, singing off-key. “Do do do do do do do do. Batman.”
    ***
    “Cermak evaluated him but didn’t move him into Division VIII,” Paul Kelly said later that afternoon. A small man in a shabby navy jacket, khaki pants, and a blue shirt, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his neck. Fluorescent light bounced off his shiny, bald head.
    The sign above Kelly’s door said “Paul Kelly: Lawyer & Insurance Agent.” Was that a sign of the health of the law business or Paul Kelly’s competence? His office consisted of two good-sized but sparsely furnished rooms in Rogers Park, a neighborhood on the northern edge of Chicago.
    “Why didn’t they admit him?” Georgia sat down across his battered desk. “He’s clearly out of it.”
    “Overcrowding,” Kelly said. “Only room for the real sickos. So they do some bullshit tests and then fold ’em back into the general population.”
    Georgia crossed her legs. “You’re officially his lawyer now?”
    “As of two days ago.” He smirked. “You should have seen the PD. Kid was so grateful he almost kissed me on the mouth.”
    “Can’t you insist he be admitted?”
    “I can insist till I’m blue in the face, but it won’t make any difference.” His voice was thin and reedy, but he spoke with a careful, almost melodic inflection, as if compensating for his timbre. “Ms.—er Davis. You’ve heard of a tsunami, right?”
    She nodded.
    “Well, that’s what this case is shaping up to be. I’ve never seen anything like it. The guy was indicted in three days and arraigned two weeks later. But—get this—the State’s Attorney’s Office has already complied with discovery.”
    Georgia jerked her head up. “That’s unheard of!”
    “Don’t I know it.” He motioned to a pile of documents on one side of his desk. “That’s what this is. Someone wants this case to go away fast.”
    “Why?”
    “Who knows?” He shrugged. “The State’s Attorney ran a tough-as-nails campaign last year. He’s probably trying to make good on it.”
    “But why this case?”
    “Because it’s a slam dunk.”
    “Nothing else?”
    “Why? What are you getting at?”
    “I was told