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to understand, and he couldn't blame her for being a little upset.  He might argue to himself, and tell her that he wasn't really changing the basic plan they'd discussed, but they both know that wasn't true.  Working as a member of a defense team in one potentially lucrative case was not even remotely comparable to going to work as a senior associate in one of the city's prestige law firms, and Frannie wasn't being conned by it.
    "It's a case that lasts a year, maybe two.  Who knows, that could be as long as any of the jobs last, Frannie.  Life's uncertain."
    Frannie rolled her green eyes, as if she had to be told that.
    Hardy pressed on.  "Mrs. Witt is worth a couple million dollars, maybe more…"
    "Which the insurance company isn't going to release to her now that she's charged with the murders."
    It was a point he had hoped she wouldn't raise.  "Stranger things have happened."  He tried a grin.  "They might."
    "Do me a favor, would you, Dismas?  Find out?  You owe us   that much."
    Dinner finished, both kids asleep, they were sitting across the dining room table from each other, finishing the last of their red wine with chocolate candies on the side — Frannie's latest culinary discovery that had addicted them both.  A brace of nearly burned-out candles sputtered with fitful light.
    Frannie sighed.  "You don't want to work for anybody, do you?"  She held up a hand, cutting off his response.  "If you don't, that's okay, but we shouldn't talk about it as if you do."
    "It's not that."
    "I bet it is.  You call all these people who've been interviewing you corporate rats.  I think the phrase betrays a certain prejudice."
    Hardy popped a chocolate, sipped some wine.  "I really don't know what it is.  This thing with Jennifer Witt just walked into my life this morning.  What am I supposed to do?  Freeman has asked me to help.  He'll take over in the morning."
    "But you are interested, aren't you?"
    "No commitments," he said.  "But yes, it's interesting.  I looked at the file."
    "You mean the file you couldn't get your nose out of, that you seem to have memorized?"
    Hardy gave up.  "Yeah, that file."
    "And what if she did it?"  Frannie was grabbing at straws and knew it.
    Hardy sat back.  "She still has the right to an attorney."
    Frannie gave him a look.  "What's that got to do with you?"
    "I'm an attorney."
    They both laughed, the tension broken a little.  One of the candles gave up the ghost, a wisp of smoke rising straight in the still room.
    Frannie reached a hand across the table and took her husband's.  "Look.  You know I'm with you.  I just want you to be sure you're doing something you'll be happy with.  This isn't just one case, you know.  If you take this one, that's what you're going to be doing, taking cases.  Maybe defending people all the time."
    Hardy had once been a cop, and on two separate occasions he had worked in the District Attorney's office.  Frannie was of the opinion that if anyone was born and bred to the prosecution, it was her husband.  She had heard his tirades against and/or scornful dismissal of defense attorneys, the "ambulance chasers," the "pond scum who took anybody for their fee up-front.
    "It doesn't have to be sleazy," Hardy said.
    Frannie smiled at him.  "I just wonder if that's the life you want."
    "The life I want is with you."
    She squeezed his hand.  "You know what I mean."
    He knew what she meant.  It worried him some, too.  But he knew if David Freeman asked him to help with Jennifer Witt, in almost any capacity, and off the top of his head he could think of several, he was going to do it.  Which meant he wasn't pursuing any of his job possibilities.  Which, in turn, meant…
    He didn't know.
    The other candle went out.  "Let's leave the dishes," he said.

4

    San Francisco's Hall of Justice, located near — almost under — the 101 Freeway at the corner of 7 th and Bryant, is a gray monolith of staggering impersonality.  Its lower