Lost Girls

''Yes.'' She nods. Blinks.

''And you want to have a life together with him?''

''Yes.''

''But you can't have a life with him if he dies in prison, can you?''

''No.''

''And you know that right now you're the only person in the world who can save him, don't you?''

''Yes.''

''Then there's only one thing to do. And you have to do it, Lisa.''

She's drying up now, dragging her nose along her sleeve. The steely glare of purpose fixed in her eyes.

''Okay,'' she says.

''Good girl. Now, Lisa, let's get this story straight.''

Having been granted permission by the court to call a final ''surprise'' witness (the judge had little choice, given the risk of an appeal if he denied me), I summon Lisa to the stand. As instructed, she has reduced the redness in her face by applying a damp cloth to her cheeks and has steadied her carriage with the half tab of Valium I supplied her with at the end of our interview. Moves forward from her seat in the back with concentration, one foot at a time, raises a hand, and swears on a leather King James to tell the truth, the whole truth, et cetera, et cetera. Peers down at me, all big eyes and lipstick. The jury leans forward. A surprise witness, their faces say. What's she going to say? I'm not sure myself.

''Tell us what you want to say in your own words,'' I instruct her softly. ''Just tell the court what really happened, Lisa.''

And then she does it. A clear chronology, point by point, blow by blow. Even better than as rehearsed, as she ends up throwing in a few details that lend greater specificity to the tale, including my personal favorite, ''Leonard had a tough time getting it up that night because one of his kids had strep throat and he was really worried.''

Can a traumatized, frightened, confused eighteen-year-old lie like that under oath in a court of law? With a little push and some coaching she certainly can. She can introduce reasonable doubt into the minds of jurors who previously had none, deliver freedom to a man who otherwise had no right to it. All of this just by opening her mouth and using the magic words.

Of course I understand how this sort of thing gives rise to the concern that my role in these proceedings shows a lack of ethics. And how then an argument could be made in sharp response, the one that lawyers always make to justify assisting the guilty for a fee: that everyone has the right to be presumed innocent in a free and democratic society, and that every opportunity must be afforded the accused to meet the charges made against him, et cetera, et cetera.

But I will not make such an argument. Not because I believe it to be false, but because philosophy makes no difference and truth is none of my concern.

In short, to appreciate the meaning of Leonard Busch's victory you need not trouble yourself with ''principles,'' however you may understand such a prickly term. So too can you stay well off the foggy moors of ''honor,'' ''mercy,'' ''justice,'' whatever.

All you need to know is this: I won.

chapter 2

Law firms always have two names. For example, the one that I'm a member of is formally known as Lyle, Gederov & Associate. But its name among defense lawyers, court clerks, judges, bike couriers, repeat offenders, and Crown attorneys who work in this town is Lie, Get 'Em Off & Associate. The suggestions of the name are clear. It is also clear from the record of its success that Lie, Get 'Em Off & Associate is among the finest criminal law firms in the country. And there're only the three of us.

Categorically speaking, criminal lawyers are known as the freaks of the legal profession (who's ever noted the eccentricities of a real estate or tax solicitor?), and Graham Lyle, law school gold medalist, oft-mentioned potential appointee to the bench (perennially rejected as too ''risky''), and $375-an-hour leader of his field, is freakier than most. An excitable, octave-spanning vocal range, and a face so defined of bone, gentle of mouth, and long of lash, it is difficult not to be disturbed by its prettiness. Add to this a flair for fashion that runs to pastels, chunky jewelry, cravats, and polka-dot bow ties, along with a habit of calling his scum-of-the-earth clientele ''darling'' or ''sweetheart,'' and you have Graham, a raving queen whose superior intelligence, Peter O'Toole good looks, and pure wickedness put him in a different league from the rest of the competition. More to the point, I like Graham. As advocates we are of the same mind. I often recall what he told me at the close of my first solo trial after I'd misled the court on the prior criminal record of my client, a deception that led to his acquittal. ''There are no such things as lies,'' he said, leaning back in his chair and giving me a wink. ''There are only misperceptions.''

Graham Lyle's partner, the other freak of the place, is Bert Gederov, a second-generation Russian immigrant who has somehow retained a threatening hint of his ancestors' accent. His body--hunchbacked, broad assed, arms swinging from his shoulders like sides of pork--is the physical manifestation of pure hostility. Even in moments of relative calm his face conveys an impatience and brutality that have assisted in winning him case after case before ''pussy judges'' at the expense of ''dumb-shit Crowns.''

For whatever psychological reasons Bert Gederov is the sort whose primary means of social interaction is intimidation. What's truly impressive, however, is that he manages to inspire fear in others through his mere presence and only rarely through actual exhibitions of viciousness. He speaks little outside of the time he is paid to, and when he does, it is to utter obscenities and crushing insults at the most vulnerable subject available. Recall the bully from your school days. Remember the shuddering of the bowels, the sudden slackness of the facial muscles, the lung-seizing paralysis the sight of him could inspire? Yes? You're now one step closer to knowing Bert. Still, although he is cruel, misogynistic, racist, flatulent, and nauseating dining company, Bert is a lawyer for whom I have nothing but the greatest respect.

As for the ''& Associate,'' that's me. And here I am, staring at myself in the Barristers' Water Closet mirror, having washed off the sweat smeared across my cheeks by Mr. Busch's grateful lips. Turn a little to the left, a little to the right, check the profile out of the corner of my eye. Conclude that I'm not looking too bad, particularly when you consider the few hours of sleep I've had over the last five of my thirty-three years. But I can also acknowledge that time is beginning to show: gray in the face, premature gray at the temples and sides, gray clouds drifting into the blue of my eyes. A lot of gray about me these days, but that's fine. Gray suits me. And I'm thinking that very thought as the beeper at my waist erupts to inform me that I've been summoned to an emergency meeting at the boardroom of Lyle, Gederov, and that both partners are to be in attendance.

As I walk the short distance north from the courthouse to the office on University Avenue, my face warming in the reluctant sunshine, my mind mulls over the last part of the beeper's small-screen message: WE'VE GOT THE LOST GIRLS. Graham's touch.

I'd heard of the case listening in on the chat in the court cafeteria (defense lawyers pay the kind of attention to news of homicides that corporate lawyers do to the fortunes of the Dow Jones). Something about two fourteen- year-old girls who'd gone missing a couple months earlier and were now presumed dead. Police were said to have ''encouraging leads,'' which meant they had their man and were just buying time to accumulate enough physical evidence to make an arrest. Somebody had passed me the newspaper while we were waiting for the judge to return from lunch and on the back page of the front section were side-by-side pictures of the victims, the kind of bland, backgroundless portraits taken for high school yearbooks. Just two missing teenaged girls captured in a flat frame. The sort of thing you see in newspapers almost every day: smiling, chins raised, careless.

When I enter the small boardroom at the office I'm met with a wall of cigarette smoke previously passed through Bert Gederov's lungs. Somewhere in the haze I see Graham rise and wordlessly indicate the chair I am to take. He's wearing a purple suede blazer and his school tie, faded by years of repeated wearings. Bert is jacketless, his sleeves rolled up, and judging from the war-torn state of the ashtray before him he's been waiting here awhile.

''Took you fucking long enough,'' he says without looking up.

''Sorry, but they tend not to adjourn court whenever a beeper goes off.''