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my arms around his neck. “I’m an idiot,” I said. “Dr. McQuist is fashion-challenged, but she’s a genius. I saw you light up when she made me stop talking and listen to you.” I kissed the top of his head. “I’ve got to run. I promise not to get into any mischief today.”
    Michael reached up and grabbed my hand.
    â€œOne other thing you should know, Maggie.”
    â€œWhat? That sounds ominous.”
    Michael turned around to face me. “I know Frederick Plummer. Not well, but I know him.”
    I sank back down into the chair next to Michael.
    â€œThe widower of the murdered woman? Grace Plummer? You know him?”
    Michael nodded. “I hadn’t said anything because I didn’t knowif this was going anywhere. And I certainly don’t know him well. He’s a client of the firm, or at least, the nonprofit foundation he started is a client.”
    â€œYou know him?” I repeated, a little dazed by this news.
    Michael shrugged. “I’ve met him a few times, that’s all.”
    â€œMy goodness,” I said. “ Small Town all around.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be that surprised,” said Michael. “There are only a handful of law firms in the city that serve business-linked nonprofit foundations. And it’s not like I play hockey with him or anything.”
    â€œSo what do you think I should do?” I asked.
    â€œGive the information to Isabella and, if this goes any further, to Mr. Gifford, and to your publisher. Most of all, remember that promise you just made not to get into mischief.”
    I thought about that promise as I chattered away to Isabella, all the way from her Berkeley office to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, until she suggested I slow down and take a breath. She seemed unflapped by the news that Michael had a connection, however tenuous, to Frederick Plummer. But I still couldn’t stop talking. Instead of being relaxed and ready for anything as we approached San Quentin, as I assumed a seasoned journalist would be, my hands were icy and I felt the kind of breathlessness you associate with high-altitude hikes. The night before, I had asked Isabella if there were special instructions about what to wear. “No denim, no green—and make sure you don’t have on an underwire bra.”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œMetal detector,” she said. “It’s really sensitive, and the underwires set it off. One time, I had to go into the ladies room, cut holes in my bra and rip the wires out. Wrecked a fifty-dollar Cosabella. You don’t want to screw around with that detector. They only give you three tries through, and then you’re out.”
    â€œYou couldn’t just stash your bra?” I asked.
    â€œAre you kidding? That’s another rule. No braless women visitors. No exceptions.”
    As we curved off the bridge, we were at sea level, and the exit to San Quentin was ahead on our right.
    We pulled off the road and up to the entry gate. Isabella said, “Look at that view. If San Quentin weren’t already here, some developer could throw up some condos and get top dollar in the real estate market.”
    Sure enough, looking out from the parking lot, the San Francisco Bay beyond, spanned by the Golden Gate Bridge, expensive cars were wending their way from Marin County’s privileged hillsides into Everybody’s Favorite City. A perfectly trimmed and edged lawn stretched beyond the parking lot, and the walkway from the lot to the reception building was lined with early-blooming rosebushes. “Inmate-gardeners,” said Isabella, “they’re the best. They’re not working on anybody’s clock.”
    â€œPeople would kill for this view,” I said, “but I guess that’s an awful and old joke.”
    â€œPunch line doesn’t work,” said Isabella. “No view from Death Row. Say your prayers,” she said to me,