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inside says you’ve been informed of your right to remain silent and that you don’t wish to make any statements at this time.”
    “Me talk to the cops?” St. Clair chuckled. He had a deep, engaging laugh. “Not this time, not any fucking time. ‘We don’t rat, we don’t crack,’ that’s our motto, man.”
    “Just show it if you need it.”
    “I’m zipped,” he said.
    “Ha.” She knew St. Clair had a near-pathological need to talk. Befriend everyone. Showcase his larger-than-life personality.
    In a few blocks she crossed the bridge across the Don Valley and the city burst into view, the downtown office towers a forest of gleaming glass. The sunshine glistened off a gold-plated building and spangled across her windshield.
    “And watch out for the phone. No blabbing to one of your girlfriends the minute you’re in jail,” she said. “They’re going to have you wired for sound. And don’t yak to your cell mates.”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “How’s your knee?”
    This was classic St. Clair. Just when you wanted to punch him in the face, he turned charming. Knew the right button to push.
    “I was back on the ice this week for the first time.” Parish was a hockey player and had won a full scholarship in the States for university. She loved to play. Last winter she’d had a major injury, and, Larkin being Larkin, he had caught her at a weak moment and she’d told him about it. Now, whenever the temperature was rising between them, he asked about it just to show how damn much he cared. “Knock it off, Mr. Master Manipulator. I’m not kidding about keeping off the phone.”
    “Hey, don’t tell me how to handle my women.”
    She was over the bridge now. She slammed on the brakes. Hard. He smashed up against the front seat.
    “What the fuck,” he yelled.
    “Get out of my car.” The street was deserted. She clambered out of the driver’s seat and yanked open the back door. “Now.”
    “No one tells me what to do.” He threw off the blanket and sat up, his eyes blazing.
    “Wrong. I’m telling you. Out. You want to be the Man? Face on the front page? Brag to your girls? Be my guest. I’m not losing a murder trial because my client wants to showboat.”
    “But—”
    “But nothing.” She checked the street. Still no one was around. The wind was whipping up through the valley. She pulled the top of her coat tight around her neck. “I’m going to Mexico. You can talk yourself into a first-degree murder conviction all by yourself. Call me in twenty-five years.”
    He bent his head between his legs and stomped his feet like a child. “Fuck. Fucking fuck, fuck.”
    “Larkin, out.”
    “I’ll keep my trap shut. I promise.”
    “Larkin.”
    “You can’t dump me now. I’m your original client.”
    This was his trump card, and he played it when he really needed her.
    On a Monday morning ten years before, St. Clair was in custody for the first time. Parish had just been called to the bar and it was her first day at work at Grill & Partners, a criminal law sweatshop filled to the rafters with young, underpaid, overworked juniors. Alvin Grill,the senior partner, walked into the bull pit—the huge room where six defense lawyers were hemmed in like cattle.
    “Who’s free to run down to Jarvis Street and interview a kid?”
    The other five lawyers were grinding away, with a fistful of trials set for that day.
    “I am,” she said.
    “Lucky you. His name’s Larkin St. Clair,” Grill said. “I’ve represented his father for decades. Kid’s going to be some lawyer’s legal aid ticket for life. Every shark out there will want to get their hooks into him.”
    That first meeting, St. Clair had sensed right away how green she was. “I’ve already had three lawyers try to sign me up,” he said, looking right at home in jail. “You look like a rookie. How many trials you done?”
    She met his eyes. “None. Believe it or not, this is my first day. You’re my first client