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me, please. I not murder Kapitan Ernst but they going to kill me for it anyway.”
    Kill him? Even if Tesema was eventually found guilty, why did he believe he’d wind up on Death Row? Sure, Arizona still had capital punishment, but only for extreme situations, such as the child rapist who had killed both his two-year-old victim and her mother, then dumped their bodies in a canal. “Oh, Mr. Tesema, that won’t hap…”
    â€œThey stick needle in my arm and I die. Then my family starve. You help me, please.”
    Why wouldn’t he listen? “I’m sure your public defender…”
    â€œI have wife, four sons, two daughters back in Ethiopia. I make family’s only money. If I die, they starve. If I not work, they starve.”
    I knew little about current Ethiopian economic conditions and hoped they weren’t as extreme as Tesema painted them. But in the end his fear—which impressed me as being more for his family than himself—swayed me. Desert Investigations could at least look into his situation and perhaps steer him toward the appropriate government agencies to help his family while his case snailed its way through the court system. “I’ll come down to the jail this afternoon and we’ll talk. But I can’t make any promises.”
    â€œYou are blessed woman.”
    Regardless of the extremity of Tesema’s situation, I smiled. Men had frequently used a “B” word to describe me, but “blessed” wasn’t it.

Chapter Four
    â€œI not kill Kapitan.”
    The black-and-white-and-pink jumpsuit should have made Rada Tesema look foolish, as was its apparent intent, but Tesema’s innate dignity won out. While only of average height, his delicate features and straight carriage even in shackles lent him a nobility seldom seen in the Fourth Avenue Jail. He didn’t look like a murderer, but few murderers did.
    â€œMy wife, my children…” He swallowed, then tried again. “You must help them!”
    A spate of cursing rang through the corridor outside, mingling with a woman’s answering please-baby-don’t-be-like-that-I-just-sucked-him-not-fucked-him. Although relatively new, the jail already reeked of damaged dreams and lost hope.
    Tesema didn’t belong here.
    I leaned across the table. “Mr. Tesema, did you or didn’t you show up at Ernst’s house yesterday morning? If you did, why didn’t you call the police immediately? And if you didn’t, why not?”
    A flicker in his eyes, a quick look away. Here came the lies. “I told police I busy with other Loving Care client that morning. I call Kapitan Ernst, say I come later in day. He say is fine.”
    â€œLoving Care?”
    â€œName of agency I work for. Have many clients, not just Kapitan.”
    â€œDid you give the police the other client’s name?”
    He looked down at the floor. “Name not important.”
    There had been no other client. Maybe the police were right and Tesema had snapped. But when I recalled the murder scene, the duct tape tying Ernst to his wheelchair, it didn’t make sense. Tesema had a practical nurse’s well-developed arm muscles formed by lifting people in and out of beds and wheelchairs. He wouldn’t need to tape an old man down in order to beat him to death.
    A woman might, though.
    The cursing and crying outside started up again even worse than before, so I fired off my next question to get Tesema’s mind off it. “Did Ernst have any female visitors?”
    â€œWomen?” He glanced at the door leading to the corridor. “He too helpless for…” A flush darkened his already ebony skin. Then he recovered himself. “The Kapitan once talk to me about crazy woman, how she bother him. But I never see her.”
    Could this have been the same woman Ernst’s neighbor saw banging on his door the night of the murder? “Did Ernst say why this