Inside the windowless courtroom, a man awaited sentencing for murder. There were no reporters and no spectators. His victim had been a rival gang member. The female prosecutor's voice echoed in the empty courtroom as she made her closing argument.

            "Your Honor, the people feel the maximum sentence in this case is both appropriate and justified. The defendant has a lengthy criminal history, a prior offense for assault with a deadly weapon, and by his own words he's demonstrated his callous disregard for human life." As she started shuffling papers on the counsel table, the air conditioner emitted a loud noise and died. "I read from the probation report: `After you stabbed him once, you then proceeded to stab him three more times?' The defendant's reply: `He took a licking and kept on ticking.' " She paused. "Your Honor, this was a human life, not a Timex watch."

            At the defense table, the defendant snickered, cupping his hands over his mouth like a child. The public defender shot him a look of utter disgust, and he sat up in the seat, solemn and alert. The judge glared at the man, peering over the top of his glasses. The prosecutor opened her mouth to continue, then stopped and removed her jacket. In minutes she would be dripping wet.

            "It's the people's position that the defendant be sentenced to the California Department of Corrections for the term of twelve years to life; that the enhancement for the use of the weapon, as well as the prior offense, be served consecutively for a total term of nineteen years to life. There are no mitigating circumstances in this case." She dropped into her chair. The air was heavy and still; perspiration trickled between her breasts. Her mind began drifting to other cases.

            "Young man," the judge said after the imposition of sentence, "if the law allowed it, I would sentence you to prison for the remainder of your life. You're a blight on the face of the earth."

            With that, the gavel came down, the prisoner was remanded, and the hearing over. Even with the maximum sentence, he would be eligible for parole in less than ten years. She grabbed the heavy case file and headed for the exit, the public defender right behind her.

            "So, we're not going to have to contend with you in the courtroom much longer," he said, referring to her recent promotion. "Gosh, that's a shame, Lily."

            They hit the double doors and he followed her down the hall. "That little snicker probably cost your client five additional years in the slammer. He could have served the five for the prior concurrently," she snapped. "You need to keep your animals under control."

            "Right, Forrester, right."

            She was buzzed through the security doors, leaving the public defender standing there shaking his head.

            Even after eight years as an assistant district attorney, she still let the vermin she prosecuted get to her, touch that exposed wire leading to her nervous system. Sparks were flying all around her, inside her. Reaching her office, she took the file and threw it with every ounce of strength she had against the glass window, watching as the contents spilled out and tumbled to various resting places all over the new commercial-grade carpet. The same names, the same faces, kept reappearing. The system was spitting them back out like rotten pieces of meat viler than when first digested. She thought of the guillotine, wondering if it had really been barbaric. They certainly didn't reoffend.

            Seeing the open cardboard box by her desk, she started packing her remaining personal effects. Tomorrow she took charge as chief of the Sex Crimes Division, one more step toward a black-robed seat on the bench. What she wanted was to look down at the courtroom, her domain, where no one could even approach her without permission. She wanted the rulings and decisions to be hers. She wanted the power, but more than anything, she wanted the control. At least she wanted something she could possibly obtain. She was married to a man who wanted nothing, aspired to nothing, accomplished nothing. John didn't even want his own wife anymore, not as a man. But this was something that had started not long after her daughter's birth. It wasn't anything new. They'd slept in the same bed without sex for years

            She looked around the office, the scattered file, the boxes. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she was late to the agency cocktail party celebrating the promotions of her and others, the shuffle in assignments that occurred every six months.

            On her hands and knees, she reached under the desk and pulled out two items: an autopsy photo and a birthday card. The photo was replaced in the file, but the card she carried to her desk and opened it, standing it upright. It was one of those musical cards that played "Happy Birthday." Yesterday had been her thirty-sixth birthday. No one had remembered but her mother. Her husband had not remembered; none of her so-called friends had remembered. Maybe if her mother had not sent her the card, Lily herself could have forgotten.

            She stood and listened to the musical serenade while red, white, and yellow sequential lights flashed on the front of the card. The notes got weaker and weaker and flatter and flatter before she realized that the minuscule battery was wearing out. It sounded like a birthday anthem for a mouse. With one abrupt move of her fist, she smashed the card flat and put it out of its misery, asking herself what kind of sentence she would give for mercy killing a birthday card: four minutes, out in two.

            Tossing the last certificate in the box for the short ride down the hall, she also tossed the card in the trash can, where it emitted one pathetic dying squeak. She grabbed her briefcase and left the office.
            When she stepped outside the building, a large man approached her. "Forrester," he said. "The jury just came in with a verdict of second-degree murder on the Owen homicide. I was just coming up to shoot the breeze with one of your investigators. You know, brag a little."
            The man was an Oxnard detective, one of the few good ones. The case was one he'd worked on for years. She wanted to stay and talk, but she was late already. "Congratulations, Cunningham. Chalk one up for our side, huh?" She liked this man. He was what the job was all about: people who really gave a shit what happened, who were willing to give it their all. "We need it. Let me tell you, the way it looks right now, the other side's winning the war."
            Jaywalking across the busy street, she looked toward the corner and wondered how many times she'd walked all the way down to cross at the crosswalk and then had to walk all the way back to the bar. She wasn't exactly concerned with a ticket. If people could go out there and kill and maim, sit around for a few years, and do it again, she should be able to walk anywhere she damn well pleased. She was an underpaid servant of the people, there had to be some fringe benefits. A car screeched to a stop in front of her, and the driver flipped her the finger. Smiling sweetly, she made a point of walking even slower.

            The Elephant Bar was filled to capacity with suits, both the male and female versions. Since the completion of the massive new government center complex, the legal community had claimed the bar as their own. The atmosphere was straight out of Casablanca, circa 1992, with whitewashed walls, ceiling fans, and a black piano player who played when no one could hear and everyone was too preoccupied to listen. But deals were cut here daily, plea bargains and under-the-table transactions, the days of a person's life dealt out like so many playing cards. Attorneys would brag that they had settled a case in Division 69; everyone knew that meant over drinks at the Elephant Bar.
            Clinton Silverstein and Marshall Duffy, both A.D.A.'s, were at a table near the front door. It was one of those high tables with no stools, the kind used by establishments like the Elephant Bar to cram more bodies into a small space. Silverstein was running his fingers around the glass rim of his gin and tonic while Duffy poured beer from a pitcher. Duffy was black and handsome, dressed in a stylishly tailored pin-striped suit and a crisp white shirt and tie. He towered over the short, stocky Silverstein.
            "You're a righteous nut case, you know," he said to Clinton, "even if I do call you a friend."
            "I'm a nut case. Right. Well, at least I don't wear tinted contacts. Do you know how weird those make you look?" Clinton stepped back from the table, loosening his tie, smiling at the other man.
            Duffy tipped his glass and let the beer slide down his throat before speaking. "My baby blues. My wife loves them. All the women love them. So what's the big deal with this transfer? I thought you put in for it."
            "Before, I put in before. When Fowler still had the unit. I'm sick of the Misdemeanor Division. Shit, if I have to handle one more drunk driving, I'll throw it all in."
            "So you don't. You got the transfer. What's the big deal about the lady? She can't be all that bad. Nice little ass. Reminds me of my wife." Duffy stepped back and almost toppled a plastic palm tree.
            "I don't care what she looks like. I just know she's one tense lady. What she needs is a good tranquilizer, a good fuck, or both. That's what I think. She's going to run that unit with an iron fist. Mark my words." Clinton ran his hands through his permed hair, making it stand on end like the boxing promoter Don King.
            "Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black, my man." Duffy's eyes turned toward the door. "Take a big slug of that drink, Clinty. Calm yourself down. Your new boss just arrived."
            "Lily," a man's voice called to her. "Over here."
            The bar was dark and smoky, and her eyes were still adjusting to the outside light; she followed the voice. "Hello, Marshall. Looks like the party started without me."
            She was anxious, scanning the room. From the looks of it, the entire agency and half the private attorneys in the area were here. She seldom attended these parties. There weren't enough hours in the day as it was, and socializing wasn't her strong suit.
            "Hey, we're all waiting for you. You're one of the guests of honor tonight. What're you drinking?"
            She started to order her standard glass of white wine, then changed her mind. "I guess a margarita, with salt." As Duffy started to flag the waitress, she added impulsively: "And order me a shooter of tequila on the side." Might as well do it right, she thought. This is what the men did when they had a bad day, came over here and got smashed. It appeared to work for them. Maybe it would work for her. Today had been a rough one, and the new job assignment was weighing heavily on her mind.
            "Whoa, there. I'm impressed. Clinton and I were just talking about you. He's been telling me how excited he is about working with you."
            "Guess he's not too excited. He just walked away." She laughed, but it really wasn't funny. Attorneys like Silverstein represented another problem Lily had to contend with, a new problem brought on by the promotion. Now she had to supervise other attorneys, some with far more experience and much larger egos. It wasn't going to be easy. She could use a good stiff drink.
            Duffy turned his head to the side, surprised. Clinton was standing a few tables over talking to Richard Fowler, Lily's predecessor.
            Lily tried to look into Duffy's translucent blue eyes, but her gaze was drawn to Fowler. "You transferred into Homicide, took my slot, right?" Her eyes burned into Fowler's back, willing him to turn around. Instead of bending down and placing her briefcase and purse on the floor, she dropped them with a loud thud. The noise was lost in the bar, and Fowler still didn't turn. Her face felt flushed. "Where's the waitress?" she asked Duffy, thinking she'd change her order to a glass of wine. She didn't want Fowler to see her tossing down shot glasses of tequila like a truck driver, but it was too late. Duffy had already given the girl the order.
            "Guess you can call me a victim of the Big Butler Shuffle," Duffy said, placing his elbows on the table.
            His words drifted past her and once again her thoughts turned to Fowler. For the past two weeks he'd been working with her, coaching her to make the shift in supervisors as smooth as possible. He was tall, maybe six-five, with the lean, hard body of a runner or a swimmer. His hair and eyes weren't just dark, they were actually black, a sharp contrast against his fair skin. He moved his long body and long legs without sound wherever he went, fluid and relaxed like a large cat ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. He moved the way Lily wanted to move. And he moved Lily.
            He saw her and headed in her direction. The waitress approached with the drinks, and he lifted the margarita off the tray, looking at Lily. She nodded. Then he saw the shot glass and again looked at her. "Yours?" he asked.
            "No . . . yes . . . I . . ." She blushed. She was stammering like a fool. Fowler did that to her. "It's been one of those days. Thought I'd try to drown it."
            Setting both glasses on the table, he slid in close to her, in front of Duffy. A cloud of his cologne drifted to her nostrils, a hint of lime. For the past two weeks she'd been inhaling it, even found it lingering on her clothes like cigarette smoke when she was forced to work closely with a smoker.
            "Shooters, huh?" he said with a slight smile, lifting only one corner of his mouth. "Was it really that bad a week?"
            "No, you've been great. I mentioned the sentencing I had today, didn't I? You know, the sweetheart who thinks human life is comparable to a Timex watch."
            "You mean, `takes a licking'? Well, it's kinda cute, isn't it? The guy might become a stand-up comic when he gets out."
            "That's the problem. The fact that you can kill a person and be out on the streets to do it again in a few years. It makes me sick. It's just something you don't get used to, no matter how many times you see it." She saw the waitress and bent down to get her purse, turning her back and digging for her money. "Let me buy you a drink."
            "The waitress is gone. Next round if you insist."
            He was so close now that their hips were touching. Lily downed the shooter of tequila in one swallow and chased it with the margarita, licking the salt off her lips. The closer he stood to her, the more flustered she became. She was talking like a rookie D.A., like she'd never prosecuted a homicide case before.
            "Do you remember the last party we were both at? I do," he said. "You were wearing this white backless dress and your hair was down, all the way down your back. You looked gorgeous."
            "The last party was a barbecue at Dennis O'Connor's, and that was over five years ago. If my memory serves me right, you were wearing jeans and a blue sweater."
            Their eyes met and he refused to look away, searching there, prying where he didn't belong. The tequila was still burning her throat and she felt uncomfortable. She took her cold glass and pressed it against her cheek. "Have to make a phone call. Watch my briefcase, okay?" She turned to head for the back of the bar, then said over her shoulder with a smile, "And, Richard, I've never in my life owned a white backless dress."
            There were a lot of things Lily had never done—things far more significant than wearing a backless sundress to a party. One of them was to have an affair. Although her husband had accused her of cheating behind his back for years, Lily had remained faithful despite the accusations and the complete disappearance of sex in their marriage.
            Elbowing her way through the people, she spotted District Attorney Paul Butler on his way to the door. He was a short, serious man in his mid-fifties who seldom mingled with those who worked beneath him. She was surprised to see him.
            "Paul," she said, "I didn't see you earlier or I would've come over. I guess your secretary informed you of our conference tomorrow on the Lopez–McDonald matter." The tequila had hit Lily hard on an empty stomach. She willed herself to appear sober, carefully articulating her words.
            "Oh, yes," he said with a blank look in his eyes. "Refresh me."
            "Double homicide, teenagers, lovers . . . the boy was beaten and bludgeoned, the girl raped and mutilated. Five suspects in custody, all Hispanic—possibly gang related." It was front-page and sensational, both kids honor students, college bound. "You asked for the conference yourself, Paul. The case was assigned to me prior to the promotion, and I've already done the work-up. Do you recall?" She tried to sound nonchalant, not wanting to emphasize the fact that he was uninformed on such an important case.
            Butler looked down and coughed. "The budget is due this week and the mayor is all over me. Also, the employee relocations. We'll discuss it tomorrow."
            As he moved to pass her, she reached out and took his hand, something she never would have done without the alcohol. "I just want to tell you how I appreciate the promotion. I know you had others to consider."
            Even in the dim light of the bar, she could see his face turning beet red in embarrassment. She was holding his hand far too close, a bad habit resulting from vanity, refusing to - wear her glasses outside the office. She looked down on the top of his head and saw how thin his hair was, something she'd never noticed before. He stepped back as if he knew.
            "Certainly, certainly," he said. "Well, I guess we'll discuss this Lopez–McDonald case tomorrow."
            As he started to pass, he was pushed into her, against her chest, her breasts. The terrified look in his eyes almost caused her to laugh out loud. Did he actually think she was flirting with him? How ludicrous. If she was going to flirt with anyone, it sure wouldn't be Butler. She leaned against the brass rail of the bar and watched him scurry away on his short little legs, musing on a world where a genuine expression of gratitude was so rare that it raised suspicion. Maybe Butler wasn't even aware he'd promoted her. He didn't remember the Lopez–McDonald matter. Perhaps his assistant just picked her name out of a hat?
            No, she rationalized, impossible. He had called Richard into his office on a rampage and demoted him, offering Lily his position only a few hours later. Richard was still a supervisor, but over the Municipal Court Division, a clear step down. The story went that Fowler had became enraged over a lenient sentence on a particularly vicious sex crime and had stormed into Judge Raymond Fisher's chambers without announcement, all the way into his private bathroom, where he had found the forty-year-old judge snorting lines of cocaine off the bathroom counter. This was one of the reasons Lily wanted a position on the bench. Like oil in water, some of the slimiest had risen to the top and floated there, untouchable, their shifting shadow spreading and darkening all the lives beneath them. Judge Fisher got caught snorting cocaine; Fowler got demoted. That sounded like a fair and impartial judgment.
            In the back of the bar, Lily spotted the phone outside the ladies' room. She thought it was the ladies' room, the name said Bwanagals or something weird. She'd been here many times but never drinking tequila. With the alcohol flooding her bloodstream, the floor moved and swayed like a ship at sea. Searching for the little stick figure of a woman with a skirt and finding none, she decided what the hell, barging through the door. She almost ran over Carol Abrams.
            "Lily," the petite blonde said, "congratulations on the promotion. That was really quite a coup."
            She patted Lily on both shoulders with dainty hands and bright pink manicured nails; the movement caused her blunt-cut, shiny hair to swing forward, and Lily watched, mesmerized, as it fell back to the exact position, every hair perfectly aligned. Pushing an unruly strand of hair off her forehead, Lily spotted the chipped paint on her own fingernails and quickly dropped her hands to her sides.
            "I won't say I didn't want that promotion. No, I won't deny it. But I'm glad that at least it was you, a woman, and not some idiot that will sit in the office all day and make paper airplanes. You know what I mean?"
            Lily went into the stall and shut the door, carefully pulling the latch. Carol Abrams might follow her inside or open the door to continue the discussion while Lily sat there with her panty hose stuck around her thighs. Brilliant and never tiring, Abrams was an asset to any department. In court, she simply wore them down: judge, jury, defense attorneys, every last one of them.
            "I don't know how you feel about Fowler, but I don't mind saying I'm glad to see him go. I mean, he clearly knows the law, but recently he has lost all semblance of self-control. Everyone knows you don't go after a judge like a madman. My God. I think he's suffering from burnout. You know what I mean?" She stopped and took an audible breath, preparing to continue.
            "Carol, why don't we talk tomorrow?" Lily said. Just as she flushed the toilet, she realized she didn't want to leave until Abrams had left and wished she hadn't flushed. She had an urge to tell her off to her face: open the door and tell her that Fowler knew more than she would ever learn in her hyperactive life, but .. .
            She opened the stall and the woman was gone. Thank God for small favors.
            Seeing her bedraggled face in the mirror, she ripped the bobby pins out of the loose knot and brushed her bright red hair. She reapplied her lipstick, tried to resmudge her eye-shadow, and headed for the phone to call her thirteen-year-old daughter.
            "Shana, it's me."
            "Hold on, Mom, let me put Charlotte on hold."
Lily thought it was insane for a child her age to have a private line as well as call waiting, but her father .. .
            "What do you want?"

            Lily opened her eyes wide and stepped back from the phone a few steps. Shana was getting more sarcastic every day. Lily remembered what it was like to go through puberty, and she was trying her best to let it slide, thinking it was just an adolescent phase. "Are you doing your homework or just talking on the phone, sweetie? Where's your dad?"
            "Charlotte's helping me on the phone, and Dad's asleep on the sofa."
            Lily pictured him there as always: the dishes piled in the sink, the television blasting, stretched out on the sofa snoring. This was one of the reasons she had begun staying late at the office. With John sleeping in front of the television and Shana in her room on the phone every night with the door closed, there wasn't really a compelling urge to go home. "Tell him I'm tied up in a meeting and will be home in a few hours."
            "Mom. Charlotte is going to be cut off. Tell him yourself."
            "I love you," Lily whispered. The line was dead. She saw Shana's adorable face in her mind and tried to match it to her tone of voice and actions. Her own child, her precious little girl, was becoming rude and obnoxious. She'd just hung up on her. Only a few years ago, Shana would sit on the floor in front of Lily for hours, enthralled at every single word that came out of her mother's mouth, her face bright and beaming. Now she was hanging up on her. If Lily had spoken that way to her father, she would've been slapped to the floor. But John said those days were over; children had a right to talk back. And Shana adored her father.
            Lily started searching for another quarter to call John and then decided against it, closing her purse. She'd say something to him about Shana talking on the phone and not studying; she couldn't stop herself. She could only be what she had already become. John would hang up and then march to Shana's room and tell her that her mother said she had to get off the phone, but it was okay; he wouldn't tell if she didn't. He might even add that her mother said she had to clean her room or she was grounded. That would go over great. If that didn't make Shana despise her, he could also remind her that her mother once said she'd have to become a waitress because she'd never study hard enough to get into college. One of those off-the-wall comments that a parent makes to prove a point to the other parent, it was not something to repeat to a child. But John repeated it and said a lot of other things that were outright lies.
            He should have been an attorney, Lily thought as she walked back into the noisy bar, straightening her skirt and smoothing down her jacket. He should have been a defense attorney. No, maybe a divorce lawyer.
            Back at the table, she saw a fresh margarita, a new shooter, and Richard Fowler. She slid the shot glass away and took a sip of the margarita, letting her hair fall seductively over one corner of her eye while she took in Fowler from his shoes to the top of his head. She was looking at a determined man, she thought, a man of conviction, a warrior, not the type of man who needed to fight with a child as his shield; nor a man who could be happy with a mediocre government job where his hours had been cut to only thirty a week and his wife carried the weight of the family while he puttered around in the kitchen. He wasn't a wimp like John.
            Silverstein's New York twang rang out from the adjoining table, where he was throwing popcorn into his mouth and trying to talk at the same time, complaining about some case; four out of five kernels ending up on his clothes or the floor. Duffy had apparently gone home.
            "Your hair looks great," Richard said. "I had no idea it was still so long. You never wear it down to the office." He reached out and touched a strand, twirling it between his fingers.
            "Not too professional. I don't know why I don't cut it. Guess I'm trying to hold onto my youth or something." She inhaled deeply. She was breathless. He was so close.
            Fowler's fingers disappeared from her hair. Lily wanted to reach for his hand and put it back, feel the electricity again, feel his fingers on her face, her skin, but the moment was shattered. From across the room, they both saw Lawrence Bodenham, a private-practice defense attorney. He honed in on Lily and headed their direction. The new rage with those in private practice was to wear their hair long, almost shoulder-length, and Bodenham's curled at the bottom. Reaching the table, he put his hand out to shake hers.
            "You're Lily Forrester, right?" he said. "Lawrence Bodenham."
            "Right," Lily said, really feeling the tequila now, wishing the man would leave and she could think of something brilliant and seductive to say to Fowler, particularly now that she'd had a few drinks and was feeling the false courage of alcohol. She made no move to shake his hand, and he withdrew it.
            "I'm representing Daniel Duthoy on that 288 matter, and I've been having some real problems with Carol Abrams regarding discovery."
            The case was only vaguely familiar to Lily. Richard evidently knew it well and turned to face the attorney with a look of contempt. Two-eighty-eight was a sodomy and the victim had been a ten-year-old boy, the defendant a pillar of the community—a Big Brother. "Remember me?" Richard snapped. "If you have any problems, Bodenham, just tell it to the judge. Or why don't you call up Butler at home on your car phone from your Porsche? He just adores you guys who pull down two hundred G's a year defending these good folk who like to butt-fuck little boys."
            Bodenham stepped back a safe distance before responding. "I hear you're back assigning drunk driving and petty thefts to new A.D.A.'s who don't know their ass from a hole in the ground. Good career move, Fowler. You're really on the way up." As soon as the words had left his mouth, the attorney disappeared into the crowd.
            Richard pushed back from the table, slapping it with both hands. His eyes were red-rimmed and he reeked of bourbon. "That about makes an evening for me. See you around." He turned to leave.
            Lily caught his coattail, stopping him. "You've had too much to drink, Rich. Let me drive you." She was standing with her purse and briefcase, ready.
            For the first time that evening, he smiled broadly, flashing perfect white teeth. "Come on, then. If you want to save me, now is the time. But if you think I'm going to let a drunk like you drive me, you're crazy. Come on. You never bought me that drink, so now you can buy me a cup of coffee."