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his head and sighed. He said, after a minute, “Okay. We’ll go see the D.A. and try to talk to him. I’ll phone and make an appointment. Maybe we can make a deal.”
    â€œWith Mr. Kilpatrick? I thought you said he didn’t make deals,” she said nervously.
    â€œIt depends on the severity of the charge, and how much evidence he has. He doesn’t like to waste the taxpayer’s money on a trial he can’t win. We’ll see.”
    He spoke to the D.A.’s secretary and was told that Rourke Kilpatrick had a few minutes free right now.
    â€œWe’ll be right up,” he told her and hung up. “Let’s go, Becky.”
    â€œI hope he’s in a good mood,” she said, and glanced in the mirror. Her hair was neatly in its bun, her face pale even with its hint of pastel makeup. But her red plaid wool skirt showed its three years, and her black shoes were scuffed and scratched. The cuffs on her long-sleeved white blouse were frayed, and her slender hands showed the ravages of the work she did on the farm. She was no lady of leisure and there were lines in her face that should never have been noticeable in a woman her age. She was afraid she wouldn’t make much of an impression on Mr. Kilpatrick. She looked what she was—an overworked, overresponsible country woman with no sophistication at all. And maybe that would work in her favor. She couldn’t let Clay go to prison. She owed her mother that much. She’d failed him too many times already.
    Mr. Kilpatrick’s secretary was tall and dark-haired and very professional. She greeted Mr. Malcolm and Becky warmly.
    â€œHe’s waiting for you,” she said, gesturing toward the closed office door. “You can go right in.”
    â€œThanks, Daphne,” Mr. Malcolm replied. “Come on, Becky, chin up.”
    He knocked briefly at the door and opened it, letting Becky precede him. He shouldn’t have. She stopped dead at the face she met across the big wooden desk piled high with legal documents.
    â€œYou!” she exclaimed involuntarily.
    He put down the thin black cigar he was smoking and stood up. He didn’t acknowledge the exclamation or smile or make any kind of attempt at a formal greeting. He looked just as intimidating as he had in the elevator, and just as cold.
    â€œYou didn’t need to bring your secretary to take notes,” he told Bob Malcolm. “If you want to plea bargain, I’ll stick to what I tell you after I hear the facts. Sit down.”
    â€œIt’s the Cullen case.”
    â€œThe juvenile.” Kilpatrick nodded. “The boys he’s running with are scum. The younger Harris boy has been pushing drugs in the local high school between classes. His brother deals everything from crack to horse, and he’s already got one conviction for attempted robbery. That time he walked in and out of juvenile hall, but he’s of age now. If I catch him again, I’ll send him up.”
    Becky had been sitting stock-still. “And the Cullen boy?” she asked in a husky whisper.
    Kilpatrick gave her a cold glare. “I’m talking to Malcolm, not to you.”
    â€œYou don’t understand,” she said heavily. “Clay Cullen is my brother.”
    His dark brown, almost black eyes narrowed and he gave her a look that made her feel half an inch high. “Cullen is a name I know. Another Cullen was in here a few years ago on a robbery charge. The victim refused to testify and he got off. I would have gone for a conviction without parole if I’d gotten him to trial. Any kin to you?”
    She flinched. “My father.”
    Kilpatrick didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His level stare told her exactly what he thought of her family. You’re wrong, she wanted to say. We’re not all like that. But before she could even speak, he turned back to Malcolm. “Am I right in assuming that you’re representing