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risking the high conviction rate so sacred to prosecutors with political ambitions.

And then she was taken down by a party-hack whore who spent so much time on his knees that the ass he kissed had become his panoramic world-view.

After that, Wolfe went outlaw, spearheading the best info-trafficking crew in the City.

Wolfe, who I always loved from the moment I truly knew her. Who told me once, "You and me, it's never going to be." Who I once had something with I'd never had before. A second chance. And, being me, I blew it.

No matter how long you're gone, some kinds of pain are always patient enough to wait for you.

"I know who you're talking about," is all I said. "But I still can't figure out what you want Mr. Burke to do."

"My father was the victim of a false allegation," the woman said. "It was all a lie. They were all liars, all those women. But only Nola, my mother, she says, even Nola she says, she was the only one who was brazen enough to tell the lies in court. It was not the truth, so it was a lie. My mother, this Nola, made it all up. Because she was a slut and a whore. She didn't want to admit what she was, so she said she was raped. Like the Scottsboro Boys. Just like that. It was on the Internet. Those girls were never raped. But they knew if they pointed a finger at black boys they would be heroes, not whores.

"That's what happened with my mother, Nola, the way she says it, Nola. The big hero. For testifying. Such a brave liar she was. So what I want, I want . . . DNA, " she said, in that breathless, dramatic tone people reserve for something holy.

"You're talking a lot of money," I said, trying to stem the flow.

"Money?" she sneered, almost cackling with scorn. "There'll be plenty of money. I talked to a producer. And she said that we'd all be there, on national TV. They can do a remote, so my father could be on TV, too, from prison."

"A producer . . . ?"

"My agent is handling it all," she said loftily. "He says a book is a sure thing, and maybe even a movie. And if Mr. Burke can get me the test, he'd be on camera, too. You know what publicity like that could be worth?"

About as much as my picture on a post-office wall, I thought, but I made encouraging noises at the woman, wanting her to finish so Michelle and I could vanish from her life.

"I want a complete DNA test," she said. "Of everyone involved. Me, Nola, my mother she says, and the innocent man, my father. See"— she bent forward to compel me with the brilliance of her plan— "my father's lawyers have all given up. The . . . rape kit, I think they call it, it's not around anymore. So, normally, there wouldn't be anything anyone could do. But Nola, my mother she says, says my father raped her. And that's how I was born. You see the beauty of it?

"Will you tell Mr. Burke for me? I know he always defends the innocent," she whispered, confirming that she was a dozen shock treatments past deranged.
    • • •
    "S ometimes, I'm ashamed that God is a woman," Michelle said on the drive back. "I don't like sick jokes."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Nice logic, huh? If this guy's DNA doesn't match up, so what? Means he's not her father, that's all. Doesn't say anything about him not being a rapist. Only thing it means is that the mother had sex with someone somewhere around the time the rape occurred. Probably after, is what I'm guessing."

"Why?"

"Lots of kids are born at eight months, not nine. Technically preemies, but they have good size and weight. The mother probably did the math herself, figured it had to be the rapist who made her pregnant."

"Or maybe just a little before, and the guy had used a condom, so the mother thought she couldn't . . . ?"

"Sure. But there's no way the rapist knew her, not even slightly. Otherwise the maggot would have gone for a consent defense, guaranteed. This wasn't a homicide. The victim lived, and she ID'ed him in court. There was probably a ton of other evidence, too. Remember what