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radio said he’s been arrested but not convicted.”
    She nods, unhappy at the memory. “As moments go, that was one of my lowest.”
    “What happened?” I ask.
    “A friend of mine, Nina Alvarez … I went to high school with her. Garcia got her fourteen-year-old daughter started on pot first, then a quick move to crack. Nina tried everything, even had her in a lockdown facility for a while. Finally, she decided to try and deal with the source, and she came to me.”
    “To get Garcia?”
    She nods. “Right. It took a while … the creep was pretty careful. Then one day I was in court testifying on a case, and that’s the day my partner caught him carrying. We booked him, and I thought that was the end of it.”
    “But it wasn’t,” I say, fulfilling my function to wander the earth, stating the obvious wherever I find it.
    “He walked two days later. His lawyer convinced the judge there was no probable cause for the search.”
    “And you never got him again?”
    “No,” she says. “The Dorsey thing blew up, and I left the force.”
    “What about your friend’s daughter?”
    “She ran off a few months later and seems to have never looked back. No doubt learning the joys of life on the street. Fourteen years old …” She struggles to get the words out without crying, and the look of pain in her eyes is tangible. On some level she feels responsible for her friend’s losing a child in this horrible manner.
    This incident is obviously something that has incredibly strong emotional importance to her, yet I knew absolutely nothing about it. What else is there about her that I don’t know, what deep personal pains that she hasn’t seen fit to mention on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday nights? And how could I be feeling shut out for not having been told something that I’ve just been told?
    I move the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Why can’t you buy Garcia for the Dorsey killing?”
    “Dorsey worked undercover for fifteen years, Andy. I was with him after that time, but I got to know him very well. He was a tough, dangerous guy who could see any kind of trouble a mile away. I can’t picture anyone killing Dorsey, but there is no way a little twerp like Garcia could have done it. If you tied Dorsey to a tree and gave Garcia a bazooka and a tank, Dorsey would skin him alive in thirty seconds.”
    What I want to say is, “Congratulations, you’re right again, Laurie! The guy who’s really guilty sat in that chair yesterday! Show her what she’s won, Johnny!” The fact that I can’t say it is frustrating, but obviously something I’m going to have to get used to.
    “I assume the cops know what you know,” I say, “but they must have something on him, or he wouldn’t have been charged. Maybe he’s graduated to the big time since you were after him.”
    She shakes her head. “He hasn’t.”
    The conviction in her voice surprises me. “You
know
that?”
    She looks me in the eye and says quietly, “I
know
that.”
    There are implications here that I decide not to go near. Our conversation eventually expires from lack of new information, so Laurie goes off to gather some more. It leaves me alone to think, which in this situation is not a particularly good idea.
    I must at least perceive a client as innocent in order to take on his defense. This rigid attitude tends to reduce my caseload, but I’ve accepted that reality. Of course, I almost never really know that a client is innocent. All I have is a distrust of the facts the prosecution presents, and a faith and belief that the client is telling me the truth. And, with the Willie Miller case as a notable exception, even in a best case I can’t prove innocence; I simply hope to establish reasonable doubt of guilt.
    This situation is far different. I can be positive that Garcia is innocent because I know who is guilty. Which leaves me with a lot to think about, and the way I best do that is by taking Tara to the duck pond. That is what I am