Lone Wolf

she’s the connection.”

“When I get out of here, I’m going to kill her,” Edward mutters.

Immediately I grab his arm. “If you say anything like that again, I can pretty much promise you that you’ll be shacking up with Hitler Junior for a long time. This isn’t a joke, Edward. The cops say so during the arrest: Everything you say can and will be used against you. And something you said in that hospital room, even if you didn’t mean it, must have been enough for the county attorney to think he could convict you.”

I hit the Pause button again, and the CD starts. Edward’s mouth twitches; he’s angry, but he’s managing to control himself. Which is a damn good lesson to learn before he steps into the courtroom.

Cara’s voice sounds younger than it does in person. I yelled at them to stop, she says. To not kill my father-and everyone backed away. Everyone except my brother, anyway. He bent down, pretending like he was catching his breath, and he yanked the plug of the ventilator out of the wall. She hesitates. He yelled, Die, you bastard!

Edward jumps up from his seat. “That’s a lie! I never said that! I told you what happened, and that wasn’t it. Ask anyone else who was in the room!”

I intend to. But even if Cara lied under oath, the real question is whether Boyle knew she was lying.

To say it is a tense weekend at the Ng household would be an understatement. Georgie is on edge, thinking of her son rotting in a jail cell-even though I have assured her he’ll survive. Cara has locked herself in her room, unwilling to face her mother’s wrath. Even the twins are cranky and out of sorts, picking up on the tension in the air. Me, I’ve made the decision to not tell Georgie-or Cara-that I know Cara was the one to testify against her brother. Part of this is because my allegiance is to my client, Edward. And part of this is because I have a strong self-preservation instinct and don’t want the shit to hit the fan until Edward’s arraignment is done.

For all these reasons, I’ve never been so happy for Monday to roll around. I’m parked in the superior courthouse lot before they even open the building for business. The first tip I have that this is no ordinary criminal arraignment is that the courtroom is crowded. Usually, the only people who show up for arraignments are the defendants and their lawyers, and occasionally, a stringer for a local paper who has to cover the courtroom beat and list the names of those who were accused of beating their wives or stealing televisions or breaking into cars. Today, however, there are cameras rolling in the back, and I have a sinking feeling they’re here for Edward. And that it was Danny Boyle, who needs media attention the way plants need sunlight, who has tipped them off.

Our case is the third arraignment of the day. “State of New Hampshire versus Edward Warren,” the clerk calls, and Edward is brought up from the underground maze of the courthouse. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He sits next to me, his foot jiggling nervously. At the table beside us is Danny Boyle, who has changed into a suit with a shirt so starched the collar and cuffs could probably cut through steak. He sits almost sideways, so that the cameras will catch his profile and not the back of his head.

He smiles at me. “Always good to see you, Joe,” he says, although prior to our Saturday morning discussion, I had only met him once at a bar association dinner.

“Same,” I reply. “And let me commend you on your choice of tie. I hear red looks great on camera.”

I don’t do many criminal arraignments. Let’s face it, New Hampshire isn’t a bastion of depravity; my cases tend toward civil suits or custody battles, not attempted murder. So I have to admit that even if I’m not showing it visibly like Edward is, I’m just as nervous.

The judge is a small man with a runner’s build and a handlebar mustache. “Mr. Warren, please rise,” he says. “I have before me indictment 558 from the grand jury that charges you with one count of attempted murder on Luke Warren. What say you to this indictment?”

Edward clears his throat. “I’m not guilty.”

“I see your attorney has already entered an appearance on your behalf. I’d like to hear the parties. Mr. Boyle, what’s your position on bail?”

The county attorney stands up and frowns gravely. “Your Honor, this is a very serious case,” he says. “There are strong elements of premeditation, of expressed intent, of malice. This was a plan devised by someone with intense animosity toward Luke Warren, who is fighting for his life in a hospital and unable to defend himself right now.

We fear that Mr. Warren’s estranged son will attempt this again, and furthermore, we feel that his presence in the community presents a danger. He’s been gone for the past six years and has had no contact with his family, Judge. There’s nothing to keep him from leaving the country before trial.”

The judge scratches his cheek. “Mr. Ng, what do you have to say?”

“Your Honor,” I begin, “my client came home immediately when he found out about his father’s tragic accident. If he really harbored any ill will toward his father, would he have jumped on a plane? Would he have spent the past week at his father’s bedside?”

I am pretty sure I hear Danny Boyle comment under his breath, “Waiting to make his move…”

“Edward Warren came here because of the love and concern he has for his father’s well-being. He has no animosity toward his father; he only wishes to carry out his father’s wishes-as he was asked by Luke Warren to do. There’s no motive, there’s no financial gain for Edward if his father dies. If Mr. Boyle is concerned about Edward being a flight risk, we are happy to surrender his passport, and we have no objection to him reporting weekly for probation, or to any other conditions the court might set.”

“Your Honor,” Boyle says, “we’d ask that the court take into consideration that there are those who need to be protected against Edward Warren’s rages-most notably Luke Warren and his daughter, Cara.”

The judge looks at me, and then at Boyle. “I’m releasing the defendant on fifty thousand dollars surety, with the conditions that he surrender his passport, have a psychiatric evaluation and no contact with his father or sister. He’ll report to the probation department every Thursday. Next?”

As the clerk calls the next set of attorneys in front of the judge, I stand up. “Sorry you didn’t get what you want, Danny,” I say. “Especially considering you brought your audience with you.”

He snaps shut his briefcase and shrugs. “See you in court, Joe,” he replies.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve signed all the paperwork necessary to have Edward released. He has buried himself in his father’s buffalo plaid jacket and keeps zipping and unzipping it like it’s some kind of relaxation technique. “So where do we go now?”

“We don’t go anywhere. I go,” I say, as we turn the corner.

Danny Boyle is standing in the lobby, holding court with six or seven television reporters. “It’s not up to us to decide what kind of life is worth living,” he says, grandstanding. “You think Helen Keller’s parents felt her existence wasn’t worth the trouble? Or how about Stephen Hawking’s family? Life is precious, period. And you can go all the way back to the Bible to know that taking the life of another before his time is an injustice and an abomination. Thou shalt not kill,” Boyle quotes. “Can’t get any clearer than that.”

Edward stares for a moment. “So it’s okay to let doctors help people who shouldn’t live, live,” he calls out, “but not to help people who should be dead die?”

The reporters pivot, the heavy heads of the cameras swiveling to catch Edward. “Shut up,” I say, grabbing his arm.

But he’s bigger and stronger, and shakes me off. “How many of you have taken an old, sick pet to the vet to be put down, because you don’t want them to suffer? You think that’s murder, too?”

“Edward, stop talking,” I yell. I pull him with all my might in the other direction, away from Danny Boyle, who is grinning from ear to ear.

And why shouldn’t he be; Edward’s just compared his father to a dog.

Although I am tempted to lock Edward in a closet so that he cannot dig himself a deeper hole, I settle for a blistering lecture the whole way back to his father’s house, and a promise that I will duct-tape his mouth the next time we’re in public if I have to. Then I drive to the hospital, calling Georgie to let her know that Edward’s out on bail and safe, for the time being.

Dr. Saint-Clare is in surgery, I’m told when I go to his office. So I get a cup of coffee and park myself in front of the ICU nurses’ desk. “Hi there,” I say, grinning at a woman with curves as broad as the Great Wall of China. “You look like a woman who’s in charge.”

She glances up over her computer screen. “And you look like a pharmaceutical rep. You can leave samples in