The corridor outside the courtroom resembled the inside of a TV station. Lights, tripods, steel equipment cases, twisted cords, and cables were strewn around in the narrow corridor while technicians sprawled out along the walls, sipping coffee and talking among themselves. A reporter for the Dallas Morning News spotted prosecutor, Stella Cataloni, and the Dallas County District Attorney Benjamin Growman, huddled in a corner in the corridor. Thinking he might be able to get a statement during the recess, he rushed over. "Do you think Gregory Pelham will be convicted this time?" he said, holding his portable tape recorder up close to the district attorney's face.

            Absolutely." Tall and lean, Growman was dressed in a dark Armani suit and a white starched shirt bearing his initials. His nose was pronounced, his eyes closely set, and his lips thin. At fifty-seven, air was sprinkled with gray, but he was still a handsome man, accomplished and confident.

            “Why did he get off the first time?"

            The trial resulted in a hung jury," Growman answered. "You know all of this, Abernathy. Give us some space here." He turned back to his conversation, but Abernathy continued thrusting the tape recorder at him.

            "Pelham was recently arrested for attempting to molest a child," the reporter said. "Is this why you decided to retry him on the old homicide charges? Why didn't you just prosecute him on the new crime? Aren't you afraid the jury will acquit him this time? Once he's acquitted, he can't be retried again. Isn't that true?"

            "Once he's convicted on the murder charges, we'll prosecute him on the new charges," Stella Cataloni interjected. "Turn off the tape recorder, Charley. Ben and I have some things to discuss right now.”

            At thirty-four, Stella was an intelligent and determined woman whom the press had dubbed the "Italian Wildcat." She was also a Texas beauty. Dressed in a yellow linen suit, she had ebony hair that fell to her shoulders in natural, soft waves. Her luminous brown eyes were flecked with gold, and her skin appeared flawless. She wore the left side of her hair pushed back behind one ear, allowing the other side to spill forward and obscure her face. Her walk was purposeful and her footsteps heavy, belying the lightness of her slender yet curvaceous body.

            "How long is the recess?" Growman asked once the reporter had walked off. It was the second week in August and the temperature was a scorching hundred and five degrees. The air-conditioning in the Frank Crowley courts building in downtown Dallas was operating, but when it got this hot, it seldom brought the temperature down below eighty degrees. Taking out his handkerchief, Growman wiped his face and neck.

            Stella glanced at her watch. "Only five minutes left," she said "and I didn't even have time to stop by the office. I wanted to see if the coroner's report on the Walden case has come in yet."

            Growman frowned. "Worry about your closing argument right now," he said. "Everything else can wait."

            "I'm about to conclude," she said, connecting with his eyes. "Depending on how long the jury deliberates, we could have a verdict by this evening."

            "How do you feel?" he said. "Do you think it's in the bag?"

            "I feel good," she said, smiling nervously. "Of course if the jury stays out longer than three or four hours, I'll be ready to slit my wrists." The smile disappeared. Outspoken and feisty, Stella had shot to the number-two position in the Dallas County District Attorney's office in only seven years. Riding a wave of good fortune and backing it with talent and skill, she had achieved a remarkable one hundred percent conviction record. She wasn't about to lose a case now.

            Ben Growman ran his hands through his hair. "Kominsky said you bullied some of the witnesses," he said. "I've warned you about that. The last thing you want in a case like this is to alienate the jurors."

            "It's a six-year-old homicide," Stella fired back, her voice echoing in the tiled corridor. "Even the best memories dull after so long, Ben, and our witnesses were all over the place in there. I was trying to force them to go the distance."

            When the defendant, Gregory James Pelham, a drifter and dangerous psychopath, had originally been tried six years before for the murder of a young retarded boy named Ricky McKinley, the jury had been hung and Pelham had been set free. Although the new crime he had been charged with was minor compared to the McKinley homicide, it had brought the defendant back into the limelight and the public was now screaming for vengeance. The media blamed the district attorney's office for letting a dangerous criminal slip through its fingers, the mayor and city council members were crawling up Growman's ass demanding he get the man behind bars, and the whole country was watching the drama unfold on national television.

            Growman leaned into Stella's face. "You have to bring in this conviction," he said, his breath as hot as a blowtorch. "We can't let this man go free again. We're lucky he didn't kill this other kid or throw battery acid in his face like he did with the McKinley boy."

            "Look," Stella said, her temper flaring, "don't you think I want this as bad as you? I've spent so much time on this case my husband frigging left me. What do you want from me?" she spat. "Blood?"

            "Control yourself." Growman jerked his head in the direction of the reporters. "Save your energy for the courtroom"

            Stella slapped back against the wall, her dark eyes blazing. Taking several deep breaths, she tried to compose herself. She watched as the doors to the courtroom swung open and people started streaming in and scrambling for seats. Growman had taught her that emotional outbursts were unnecessary expulsions of energy. With careful coaching, he had channeled Stella's raw and somewhat uncontrollable talent into qualities that had made her a consistent winner.

            In many ways, though, Stella felt like Growman's invention. His career had been on the skids several years back, and in Stella, he had created the exact vehicle he needed to propel him back to the top. She was his rocket launcher, his henchman, his gunslinger. In her present position Stella acted more as an administrator and counselor to the scores of attorneys who worked beneath her, advising them on finer points of law, helping them devise case strategies, analyze jurors. Dozens of other prosecutors could have tried the Pelham case, able attorneys who had less to lose because they weren't sitting on top of a perfect conviction record. Growman had insisted that she take on the case, though, claiming she was the only one who could bring in the conviction.

            "Ricky McKinley is dead," he said, his voice low. "Are you going to let the person who put him in his grave go free? You, of all people, should know the agony he suffered. A poor, pathetic kid, Stella. How many more kids are we going to let this bastard mutilate and kill?"

            Stella blinked back tears. Then an idea appeared in her mind. She could dispel her image as a bully in the eyes of the jurors, and at the same time bring the case back to life. Blood rushed to her face. Could she do it? Everyone was counting on her. How could she let this monster walk out of the courtroom again when his fate rested in her hands?

            This time, Stella thought with steely determination, Gregory James Pelham was not going to escape punishment. As far she was concerned, Mr. Pelham had reached the end of the line. "Quick," she said. "I need a rubber band."

            Five minutes later, a different prosecutor strode down the aisle to the counsel table. Now Stella's hair was secured in a tight ponytail at the base of her neck, and an ugly, abraded scar was fully visible on the right side of her face. Her walk was more tentative, her eyes downcast, and she sucked a corner of her lip into her mouth to keep it from trembling.

            Every seat was taken. Reporters and spectators were standing along the back walls. As Stella continued down the aisle, she heard people gasp and whisper, their combined voices becoming an annoying buzz inside her head. They were like a hive of killer bees, she thought, ready to swarm all over her and sting her to death. When she reached the counsel table and dropped down in her seat, a reporter crept over and started snapping pictures from a kneeling position. "What happened to your face?" he said. "Is that scar real?"

            Stella became enraged over the man's stupidity. "You'll get your chance later," she said, lashing out with her hand and knocking the camera aside. Seeing the jurors being led in by the bailiff, she quickly organized her notes on the table and tuned out the cacophony around her. The judge was on the stand, the jury in the box, and Stella was ready to get down to the business at hand.

            Stella's co-counsel on the Pelham case was Larry Kominsky, a bright young attorney with red hair and freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. Seated between them at the counsel table was a woman with large expressive eyes and a regal face. Brenda Anderson was the D.A.’s investigator assigned to the case.  An African-American, Anderson held an undergraduate degree in computer science and a master's in criminology. She had worked her way up through the ranks of the Dallas Police Department before obtaining her present position, and was now recognized throughout the state as the technical wizard of the Dallas District Attorney's Office. Seeing the scar, she exclaimed, "My God, Stella, what did you do to yourself?"

            "I'll tell you later," Stella whispered. "Right now we're going to kick some ass."

            "Ms. Cataloni," Judge Malcolm Chambers said into the micro-phone, pausing until Stella looked up. Chambers's face was tired and lined, his white hair unruly, and his glasses perched far down on his nose. If he noticed the scar, he didn't react. "You may resume where you left off prior to recess."

            "Thank you, Your Honor," Stella said. Standing and glancing over at the jurors, she saw the shock register on their faces when they spotted the scar. Look all you want, she told them in her mind, just listen close because I'm about to connect the dots.

            "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, turning slightly so she was facing the jurors, but keeping the right side of her face clearly within their sight. "Before we recessed, I reiterated the facts the state has presented in this case. Before you begin your deliberations, I want you to remember the victim in this case. Remember the autopsy photos you viewed during the course of this trial." Stella lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "Imagine, if you can, what Ricky McKinley would have looked like had he managed to survive the defendant's savage attack." She stopped and waited, standing as still as a statue, her face completely expressionless.

            "Why am I asking you to do this?" she finally continued. "I'm asking you to do it because Ricky McKinley didn't survive. He isn't here to confront his attacker, to tell you firsthand of the agony and horror he was made to endure at the hands of the defendant. Even if this child had escaped death somehow, he would have led a life of anguish and despair. He would have never looked normal, never been' accepted by his peers, never been free of fear. You can't hear his pleas for justice, as they are only ghostly cries from the grave," she said, dropping her eyes. "I can hear his cries, though, just as I can imagine the unbearable pain he must have suffered when the defendant tossed battery acid in his face."

            Stella walked over to the jury box. One finger trailing along the railing, she continued, "For six years, Ricky McKinley has been dead. And for six years, the man who brutalized and murdered him has walked the streets as a free man."

            The courtroom was silent. No one whispered, no one moved, no clothes rustled. Every eye was glued on Stella, the jurors tracking her as she paced, never for one second looking away. Stella's brow and upper lip were moist with perspiration, and she could feel sweat trickling between her breasts and soaking her armpits. "This despicable person, this predator," she said, throwing her arm out in the direction of the defendant, "lured Ricky McKinley into his car, drove him to a cheap motel, and viciously sodomized him. He then beat him to within an inch of his life, sprayed shaving cream in his mouth and nose, and made him cower in the corner under a table. Was that enough?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "The defendant's perverted cravings were satisfied. What more could he want?" She paused and shrugged, as if she were waiting for someone to give her the answer.

            “No," she suddenly shouted, her body trembling with emotion, "it was not enough." Her speech became faster as she gathered momentum. "He proceeded to carry Ricky's bloody and battered body to the of his car. He then drove to an isolated field and threw battery in his face, eating the skin off the bone. He didn't care that Ricky was mutilated beyond recognition, that his body would later be identified only through dental records, his face unrecognizable even to the woman who gave birth to him. All the defendant cared about was avoiding arrest, making certain that this pathetic child never identified him and caused him to suffer the consequences of his actions. In order to feel safe," she said, "Gregory Pelham had to blind an eight-year-old child."

            Striding back to the counsel table, Stella looked over at Judy McKinley, the victim's mother, seated in the second row behind the counsel table. The woman's shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down her face. Reaching over and touching her arm, Stella then spun back to the jury box. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "the fate of this man now rests in your hands, along with the fate of his future victims." She searched the jurors' faces, as if she were committing them to memory and holding each of them accountable. "Once you have considered the overwhelming evidence the state has presented," she said slowly and distinctly, "you will know that there is only one verdict that can be returned in this case. As Ricky's avenging angels, you must put this man behind bars where he belongs and allow this poor child's soul to finally find peace."

            The jury deliberated two hours.

            Having been notified by the bailiff that the verdict was in, Stella hurried back to the courtroom with Ben Growman, Larry Kominsky, and Brenda Anderson, all of them anxious. Kominsky appeared younger than his thirty-one years. A West Point graduate, he had abandoned his military career to become an attorney. Next to Stella, he was one of Dallas's finest prosecutors, his diminutive size and fresh-faced appearance making him appear deceptively innocent and naive.

            Brenda Anderson was dressed in a conservative knit dress, the hemline several inches below her knees. Her neck was long and elegant, her hair worn in a tight knot at the base of her head. Reserved when she was in a group, but outspoken when she related on an individual basis, she was walking next to Stella with her head down.

            "We've got it," Kominsky said, looking up at the ceiling as if the word had just come down from God himself. "The jury was only out two hours. Your decision to expose your scar was brilliant, Stella. There's no way they'll acquit the bastard now."

            "Shut the fuck up," Growman said, yanking on his shirt cuffs. He stopped and faced Kominsky, hissing his words through his teeth.

            "Don't you have an ounce of sense? Don't you realize what it took for this woman to expose herself in front of the cameras?"

            The attorney looked at Stella and blanched. Her hair was still tied back and she had placed her hand over her cheek to cover the scar. "I'm sorry, okay," he said. "I didn't think. Please, forgive me, Stella, but ... it was great, you know. The part I liked best was, `Imagine, if you can.' Man, was that a piece of work. You should have seen the jurors' faces."

            "Thanks, Larry," Stella said, flinging open the door to the courtroom. "Let's just hope it worked."

            The three attorneys took their seats. It was after six and most of the spectators had gone home, not expecting a verdict until the following day. Only the press and members of the immediate family were assembled in the courtroom. Since Growman was present, Brenda Anderson slipped into the front row next to Judy McKinley and a few other members of the victim's family. Once the jury had filed in and been seated, the judge called the court to order and asked the jurors if they had reached a verdict.

            "Yes, we have," said the foreman, an older man with wire-framed glasses and red suspenders.

            "Will the defendant please rise," the judge said.

            Gregory Pelham was a short, dark-skinned man with heavy-lidded eyes and rust-colored hair. He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, a paisley print tie, and a pink shirt. When his attorney nudged him, he pushed to his feet and scowled at Stella before turning to face the front of the courtroom.

            "You may read the verdict," the judge told the foreman.

            "We, the jury," the foreman read, "find the defendant guilty of the offense of murder in the death of Richard W. McKinley, as charged in Count One of the indictment."

            Stella bolted straight up in her seat. Growman pulled her back down. He was pleased, but there were additional charges, and he wanted to hear the jurors' decisions on these as well. Due to the age of the case and the lack of substantial evidence that the defendant had premeditated his attack, the state had not filed charges of capital murder, an offense which carried the death penalty. They had, however, filed several other charges, the most significant of them being kidnapping.

            "We, the jury," the foreman continued, "find the defendant guilty as charged in the crime of kidnapping, as set forth in Count Two of the indictment."

            Kominsky leaned forward and whispered to Stella and Growman, "I'll buy the champagne." No longer concerned about the remainder of the charges, he slipped out the back.

            Stella listened as the rest of the verdicts were read, most of the charges classified as lesser or included crimes. Many times the prosecution would file numerous counts, all reflective of the same period of criminal behavior. If the jury convicted on one count, it could not convict on the others; therefore, Pelham was found not guilty on the remaining counts.

            Once the foreman had finished reading the verdicts, the judge set a date for sentencing and promptly adjourned. Reporters leaped to their feet and rushed the counsel table, thrusting microphones in Stella's face. "How long do you think Pelham will be in prison?" one male reporter said, shoving several other reporters aside.

            "We hope to get the maximum sentence," Stella said, ripping the rubber band out of her hair and pulling the right side forward so it covered her scar. "If the judge sentences consecutively on both the murder and the kidnapping charges, Mr. Pelham may never step out-side the prison walls."

            "What happened to your face? Was it a recent accident or is it an old injury? Did you decide to expose it at the last minute to influence the jury?"

            Questions flew at her from all directions. "No comment," Stella said. She turned to say something to Ben Growman, and then walked over and embraced Judy McKinley. "It's over, Judy," she said. "Maybe you can get on with your life now."

            "Thank you," the woman said, sobbing. "I don't know how I'll ever repay you. You were wonderful today. I don't know what happened to you but—"

            Stella released her when Growman stepped up beside her. The television cameras were rolling again and the photographers were snapping shots of the two of them together. "You've said you might retire next year," a woman reporter said to Growman. "Are the rumors true that you're grooming Ms. Cataloni as your successor?"

            Growman beamed, draping an arm over Stella's shoulder. "That's a clear possibility, young lady," he said, using the relaxed, folksy tone of a seasoned politician. "To tell y'all the truth, I can't think of anyone I'd rather endorse than Stella Cataloni. She's the finest prosecutor we've ever had in this agency." He glanced over at Stella and chuckled. "Maybe I'll even organize her campaign. Heck, I've got to do something after I retire. Of course, that's if she'll have me."

            Stella smiled. When a man with twenty years in on a job, one as respected and revered as Ben Growman, issued a glowing recommendation on national TV, it was tantamount to handing over the keys to his office. Feeling his hand brush against her side, she reached down and squeezed it. Stella was on a high, and she loved it. Nothing could stop her now.

            Stella, Growman, Kominsky, Anderson, and several other senior D.A.'s were gathered in the conference room, better known as the war room. Once a week Growman assembled the senior staff and department heads, and they all faced one another around the long oak table as he made work assignments and commented about various aspects of ongoing cases. The table was now covered with paper napkins, pizza boxes, plastic cups, and open bottles of champagne, and a festive atmosphere prevailed.

            Also present was Samuel Weinstein, Stella's planned dinner companion for the evening. They had made arrangements to get together before she realized the verdict would come in on the Pelham case. Technically, Weinstein was Stella's divorce attorney, but even before she had hired him to represent her in the dissolution of her marriage, they had moved in the same small world. Weinstein was a close acquaintance of Ben Growman's and had met everyone in the room on occasion. Dallas, like many towns, had well-defined social circles. People in the law game generally belonged to the same private clubs, worked out at the same gyms, had drinks at the same bars.

            Lately Stella had been spending a great deal of time with Weinstein, not all of it related to her divorce. Sam was a good-looking man and a dynamite divorce attorney, but in some ways he was old-fashioned. Only forty-three, he had been a widower for over ten years, having lost his young wife to breast cancer. Stella found him appealing, even if he was a tad too conservative. With his curly hair and penetrating eyes, his prominent nose and a strong jaw, the attorney had been a steadying influence as she navigated the emotional waters of her divorce. From time to time, he took her out to dinner, but Stella was still undecided where she wanted the relationship to go.

            "You shouldn't drink so much champagne," he told her, scowling. "You'll make yourself sick. You haven't even touched the pizza."

            "After today," Stella said, tipping a plastic cup of champagne into her mouth, "I think I deserve to get sloshed. If it all comes back up, so be it."

            The rest of the table responded with laughter. Growman stood. "To Stella," he said, holding his champagne glass in the air. "We should all be so dedicated. Take a good look at her, people, because in a few years Stella Cataloni is going to be the new D.A. of Dallas County. Yours truly will be just another old fool puttering around on the golf course."

            Stella grabbed her glass and tapped it against every glass at the table, leaning over to reach some of them on the far end.

            "Speech," Kominsky called out. He had started drinking the champagne long before the others had arrived.

            "I'm too drunk to give a speech," Stella mumbled under her breath. Then she lifted her glass again. "To Ben Growman," she offered. "May he retire posthaste. Then I can sit at the head of the table and make your lives hell." When she tapped Sam's glass, it tipped champagne spilled down the front of his suit. He reached for a napkin and tried to soak up some of the wine.

            "I'm sorry, Sam," Stella said, frowning.

            "Coffee," Kominsky yelled. "Get the woman some coffee. We've got a sauced prosecutor on our hands. Two, actually."

            Brenda Anderson left to see if there was any coffee left in the kitchen down the hall. Seated next to Stella, Growman leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I had my secretary tape your interview off the television today. Come by my office and I'll give you the tape as souvenir. If you study it, you'll learn how to present yourself to the media. That's part of the game, you know. Once you start campaigning, you'll want to become more polished."

            "Thanks, but no thanks." Stella's lighthearted mood evaporated. She had exposed herself and won the case, but now it was over, and she certainly didn't want a souvenir of herself looking like a freak. I'm ready to go," she told Sam, patting down the hair on the right side of her face. "It's been a long day, and you're right, if I keep drinking, I'm going to pass out or get sick."

            "It's fine with me," he said, helping her to her feet.

            Taking his arm, she told herself that Sam was special. She had learned to respect him, even lean on him during the past months. Raising his twelve-year-old son alone while managing a busy law practice had to be a difficult task. Stella was so obsessed with her job that she couldn't even appease her husband, let alone handle the demands associated with raising a child

            .A junior attorney, looking haggard, stuck her head in the door. "I have a call for you, Stella," she said. "Do you want to take it or should I have them call back in the morning? It's Holly Oppenheimer from the Houston D.A.'s office."

            "What line is she on?" Stella asked. Even though Oppenheimer was a prosecutor in Houston now, she had once been a D.A. in Dallas and the two women had been on friendly terms. Although they rarely socialized outside the office, they had frequently shared a table at lunch and were often seen huddled over coffee in the cafeteria during morning and afternoon recesses. Holly had also been the prosecutor when Pelham was first tried, and Stella had conferred with her on a regular basis before and during the present trial.

            "Line three," the woman said. "It's the only line that rings through when the switchboard is closed, and it only rings in my office. Every time I work late, I get stuck with all these calls."

            Telling Sam she would be only a few minutes, Stella walked over to the console behind the conference table and picked up the phone. "Holly," she said, "did you hear the news about Pelham?"

            "Of course I did, Stella," the woman said. "How could I miss it? You've been on almost every TV channel. The CBS affiliate here in Houston carried it live. I couldn't wait to congratulate you."

            "Thanks," Stella said, "but you know what? A lot of what I used was your doing. We filed the same charges, used the same evidence. We tried our best, but we couldn't come up with anything new. I just dug into your old notes and put a slightly different spin on them."

            "You'll never know how badly I wanted that case, Stella. I got very close to Ricky's mother. When we lost it and they kicked Pelham free, I felt as if I had failed her."

            "She's a nice lady," Stella answered. Seeing Ben Growman glaring at her, she turned to face the wall and lowered her voice. "She asked about you the other day, told me to send her regards."

            "How is she?" Holly asked. "This was so hard for her. Ricky was her only child. Since I have a daughter of my own now, I know how a mother feels."

            "She's better," Stella said. "I think now that it's over, she can finally get on with her life." Turning introspective, she thought about her own situation. "By the way," she said, "have you had a chance to look over the old reports on the fire? You've got a great eye, Holly, and you might be able to see something the earlier investigators missed. I know your time is limited but I was hoping—"

            "Oh," Holly said. "I'm sorry, Stella. I was so excited over the Pelham case that I almost forgot to tell you. Your old boyfriend is back in town. The cops stopped him just last night. He's coming in tomorrow morning to give us a statement."

            "Randall?" Stella said, a hand flying to her cheek. She tapped Growman on the shoulder. "They found Tom Randall, Ben. He's back in Houston."

            Growman fidgeted in his seat and scowled.

            "What time is he coming in?" she asked.

            "He's supposed to be here at nine," Holly said. "Listen, Stella," she continued, her voice harsher, "people thought I left the agency because I lost the Pelham case, but I left because Growman sexually harassed me and forced me to resign. Just because the review board didn't take my allegations seriously doesn't mean they weren't valid." She paused and heavy breathing came out over the line. "I know you and he are tight and he's probably sitting right next to you, but to tell you the truth, I really don't care." Before Stella could respond, Holly slammed the phone down in her ear. Stella hung up with a shrug.

            "Your biggest fan," she said to Growman.

            "Oh, yeah?" he said, tipping his chair back. "Tell me something I don't know." A few moments later, he straightened up, seeing the tense look on Stella's face. "Randall's the man you think set the fire that killed your parents. That means he's the person responsible for your scar, right?"

            "Right," Stella said, her eyes flashing with hatred. "You know how much I want this man? You have no idea, Ben."

            "What are you going to do?"

            "I've waited sixteen years to find this asshole," she snarled, "to make him pay for what he did to me. You want to know what I'm going to do? I'm going to nail his fucking ass to the wall." Her hands locked into fists at her side. "Not only that, I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

            Whereas the people gathered at the table had been chatting and laughing among themselves, they now all fell silent. Before today no one outside of Growman had been aware of Stella's scar, as she had always concealed it beneath her hair.

            Brenda stepped back into the room and looked around. "Did I miss something?" she asked. "Did someone just die in here? I thought this was a party, people."

            Stella's eyes were glazed over and her mouth set. Her heart was beating like a drum inside her chest. Realizing the other attorneys were waiting for her to say something, she flushed with embarrassment.

            Sam quickly stood and pushed his chair back to the table. "Come on, Stella," he said, putting his arm around her, and leading her to-ward the door. He could feel her trembling. "I'll drive you home. Let's get out of here."