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Talmadge X said tomorrow, then it would be tomorrow. “All right, Mr. Carter, I don’t get his motive. Tell me why.”
    “I can’t. You tell me. You’ve known him for almost four months. No history of violence or guns. No propensity for fighting. Sounds like he was the model patient. You’ve seen it all. You tell me why.”
    “I’ve seen everything,” Talmadge X said, his eyes even sadder than before. “But I’ve never seen this. The boy was afraid of violence. We don’t tolerate fighting in here, but boys will be boys, and there are always the little rituals of intimidation. Tequila was one of the weak ones. There’s no way he would leave here, steal a gun, pick a random victim, and kill him. And there’s no way he would jump on a guy in jail and send him to the hospital. I just don’t believe it.”
    “So what do I tell the jury?”
    “What jury? This is a guilty plea and you know it. He’s gone, off to prison for the rest of his life. I’m sure he knows plenty of folk there.”
    There was a long gap in the conversation, a break that seemed not to bother Talmadge X in the least. He closed the file and shoved it away. The meeting was about to be over. But Clay was the visitor. It was time to leave.
    “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “What time?”
    “After ten o’clock,” Talmadge X said. “I’ll walk you out.”
    “It’s not necessary,” Clay said, delighted with the escort.
    The gang had grown and appeared to be waiting for the lawyer to exit D Camp. They were sitting and leaning on the Accord, which was still there and still in one piece. Whatever fun they’d planned was quickly forgotten at the sight of Talmadge X. With a quick jerk of his head he scattered the gang, and Clay sped away, untouched and dreading his return the next day.
    He drove eight blocks and found Lamont Street, then the corner of Georgia Avenue, where he stopped for a moment for a quick look around. There was no shortage of alleys in which one might shoot someone, and he was not about to go looking for blood. The neighborhood was as desolate as the one he’d just left. He’d come back later with Rodney, a black paralegal who knew the streets, and they’d poke around and ask questions.

    C HAPTER 5   
    The Potomac Country Club in McLean, Virginia, was established a hundred years earlier by some wealthy people who’d been snubbed by the other country clubs. Rich folks can tolerate almost anything, but not rejection. The outcasts pumped their considerable resources into Potomac and built the finest club in the D.C. area. They picked off a few Senators from rival clubs and enticed other trophy members, and before long Potomac had bought respectability. Once it had enough members to sustain itself, it began the obligatory practice of excluding others. Though it was still known as a new country club, it looked and felt and acted like all the rest.
    It did, however, differ in one significant way. Potomac had never denied the fact that its memberships could be bought outright if a person had enough money. Forget waiting lists and screening committeesand secret votes by the admissions board. If you were new to D.C., or if you suddenly struck it rich, then status and prestige could be obtained overnight if your check was large enough. As a result, Potomac had the nicest golf course, tennis facilities, pools, clubhouses, dining room, everything an ambitious country club could want.
    As far as Clay could tell, Bennett Van Horn had written the big check. Regardless of which cloud of smoke he was blowing at the moment, Clay’s parents did not have money and certainly would not have been accepted at Potomac. His father had sued Bennett eighteen years earlier over a bad real estate deal in Alexandria. At the time, Bennett was a big-talking Realtor with lots of debts and very few unencumbered assets. He was not a member of the Potomac Country Club then, though he now acted as if he’d been born there.
    Bennett the