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defender is, what he does.”
    “You heard the news about Paula, I guess,” he said.
    “On the radio? Television? It wasn’t in the papers yet.”
    She shook her head.
    “She tried to kill herself last night, and very nearly did it.”
    Barbara could think of nothing to say. She started to walk slowly, and he walked by her side.
    “Her sister thinks I’m pushing her, trying to get her to plead. I suggested it as one of her options, that’s all.
    Best thing she could do for herself, actually, but if she won’t, she won’t. Now this. Remorse, guilt, this isn’t going to help her.”
    “No,” Barbara agreed.
    “Have you seen her? Will she be all right?”
    “I talked to the doctor, she’ll be okay. They’re keeping her sedated for now. I’ll drop in tomorrow.”
    They walked toward the below-the-street tunnel to the parking lot. Many other people were going that way; it was lunchtime.
    “Mr. Spassero, have you considered a second evaluation of her mental condition?” she asked finally, keeping her voice neutral and low.
    “What’s the use? Ricky Palma is as good as they come. He says she can stand trial.”
    “I don’t know what’s the use,” Barbara said.
    “I’ve read about her case. Everyone except her husband says she was a good mother to her child. If she was, she wouldn’t have killed her, unless she was severely men tally disturbed. I guess that’s all I mean.”
    “Every woman who turns up at a place like the Canby Ranch is disturbed,” he said.
    “You know that. But they don’t all kill their kids. And maybe the husband knows more about her than anyone on the outside.”
    She stopped walking and turned to face him, wondering why he was willing to talk about this case with her, why he seemed to be arguing about it with her. People eddied around them as if they were rocks in a river.
    “Will you get a second opinion?”
    “No.”
    “And last night, was she disturbed then, Mr. Spassero?”
    “She’s overwhelmed by guilt,” he said. The boyish look was gone, and although he looked less certain, a hard edge had come into his voice.
    “I don’t want to stage a courtroom melodrama with two psychiatrists going at each other. Guilt and remorse drive many people to suicide, Ms. Holloway. I accept that.”
    “I know,” Barbara said, and started to walk again.
    “But so do a lot of other states of mind. Despair, severe depression, fear, helplessness. Even grief.”
    They exited from the tunnel and climbed the stairs to the parking lot, into the sunlight.
    “Good-bye, Mr. Spassero,” Barbara said, and started to walk away from him. He caught up with her and she walked a little faster. He put his hand on her arm and when she stopped moving and looked at it, he hastily pulled back; she resumed threading her way among the parked cars.
    “Look, you think I’m not handling this case right, take it. It’s yours. You think I want this chickenshit? I won’t fight a change of attorneys.”
    They had reached Barbara’s car. She unlocked the door, glanced at him, and said again, “Good-bye, Mr. Spassero.”
    Well, well, she thought as she left the lot, Mr. Spassero had a few things to learn, but he was on his way. He knew as well as she that he was not handling the case properly; there should be a second opinion. And he had tried one button after another to induce her to take over remorse, guilt; the husband might be right; an uncooperative client; an interfering and distrustful sister. Why didn’t he just get excused? A client who wouldn’t talk to him was reason enough for the court to appoint someone else without another question asked.
    All right, she told herself, and tried to put herself in his place. He knew there was no money; the state would pay thirty to forty thousand for the defense of a murder case, but who would pay expenses for a private attorney?
    She frowned. He knew she couldn’t do it—few private attorneys could—but maybe he had goaded her in order to provoke her