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was me?
    Not without a lawyer of my own.
    Then come with me. Worst that can happen, you make three bills an hour.
    If it was all about money, I'd be working for the mob.
    Tatum leaned into the table, as if on the level. Let me lay it on the line here. Yeah, I popped a few guys. That's all in the past. Trust me, the world don't miss the scum I did away with. I never killed no one like this woman here, this Sally Fenning.
    Jack gave him a hard look.
    Come on, said Tatum, groaning. I think someone's trying to fuck me here. Sure, I did some bad shit in my life. But this time, damn it, I'm innocent. For a real-life criminal defense lawyer like you, that's about as good as it gets, ain't it?
    Jack nearly smiled. The guy had a point. Just about.
    So you with me?
    I'll think about it.
    Jack offered the letter back, but Tatum held up his hands, refusing.
    Keep it. You might need it.
    Jack folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. Might, he said.

    Chapter Five On Friday night Jack went back to high school. The Cavaliers of Coral Gables Senior High were battling Miami Lakes on the gridiron, and he thought it would be fun to take his Little Brother to cheer on his alma mater. Jack was part of the local Big Brothers Big Sisters of America program, and he liked nothing better than to take Nate places that his mother didn't take him - like football games and more football games. It seemed like a nice thing to do for a single mother trying to raise a boy on her own, which was why he'd volunteered in the first place. Nate turned out to be a great kid, which was why Jack loved doing it.
    Tonight, however, Jack had an agenda of his own.
    As usual, there was a good crowd on hand. Jack and Nate flowed with the stream of excited fans through the turnstyle at the main entrance gate. The marching band was on the field, putting their collective heart into the familiar school fight song. The grandstands were filling up quickly, as a lighted scoreboard at the far end of the field blinked down to fourteen minutes and counting till kickoff. A long line of football players suddenly rushed past him and Nate. Their pregame warm-up was over, and they were hooting and hollering all the way back to the locker room for last-minute game prep.
    It had been almost twenty years since Jack played varsity ball, and for a moment he could hardly believe that he'd ever actually looked that young in his gray and crimson uniform.
    Did they wear helmets back when you played? asked Nate. He was eight years old and sometimes had a way of making Jack feel like eighty.
    Not always, said Jack. Which explains an awful lot.
    Like what?
    Nothing, he said, pulling Nate along as they walked toward the stands.
    Why do you always say that?
    Say what?
    Whenever I ask what you mean, you always say nothing.'
    I don't always do that.
    Uh-huh. My mom says you do it, too.
    Oh, she does, does she?
    She says you're afraid to let people know what's really inside your head.
    She really said that?
    Does that sound like something I would make up?
    Jack smiled, though it troubled him to think that Nate's mother saw him as someone who erected emotional barriers. Funny, but his ex-wife used to say the same thing. Don't want people inside my head, huh? What exactly is that supposed to mean, anyway?
    Nothing, Nate said smugly.
    Wise guy.
    It was the sixth game of the season, no losses so far, and Jack could feel the excitement around the stadium. They'd arrived too late to get prime seats, but Jack wasn't in a hurry to sit anyway. He waited behind the bleachers at the fifty-yard-line entrance, watching the fans pass by. This section was where players' parents usually sat, and the Cavaliers' quarterback was Justin Grasso. His mother, Vivien Grasso, never missed a game.
    Jack had intended to call Vivien before the weekend but was caught up in an arbitration proceeding in Orlando. Her letter to Tatum Knight had scheduled the mystery meeting for Monday afternoon. Jack figured he'd