Lost Girls

''Agreed to--?''

''Plead guilty.''

''Oh.''

''You won, Pete.'' I extend my hand over the desk. ''Congratulations.''

Takes the hand and gives it a limp joggle, his palm slippery with egg yolk.

''He's pleading guilty?''

''There's no point in continuing in the face of overwhelming physical evidence. I mean, as you can appreciate from--''

''But it's not overwhelming!'' he almost shouts. ''The hair doesn't end it, not on its own. Even with the other things it's not enough. You know that. So why are you telling Tripp to plead? Now, without even introducing the defense's case? Why plead now, Barth?''

This is unexpected. I assumed Goodwin would respond to this news the same way I would have if I were in his position: take the conviction and run to the nearest bar for a long series of libations and entertainments. But no, he's got to have it all figured out in his own mind first or else he won't get any sleep for the next fifteen years.

''I've advised Mr. Tripp in the manner that I have,'' I say, working to sound matter-of-fact, ''because I feel there's no longer any reasonable chance for an acquittal. The hair samples changed things significantly for us. That may not be your estimation, but with all due respect, it's not your job to judge the wisdom of strategic decisions made by the defense.''

''I realize that. But this whole thing feels weird. For weeks you're hammering away at how the Crown's evidence is nothing but a load of junk, and then all of a sudden you're rolling over and playing dead. It seems to me that something's missing here.''

''You're right about something being missing,'' I say. ''The thing is I have to do this. And you have to let me.''

There's a grinding from under Goodwin's chair as he leans back but says nothing. For a moment I take his silence to be an indication of doubt, but that's not it. He's listening. I take in a long breath that, held for a half second, blasts out again. And with this banal exchange of air, the timeless in and prehistoric out, comes a sudden, devastating fatigue.

''For the first time in twenty years I'm trying to do something right,'' I say. ''And I may be going about it all wrong, but I'm new at this sort of thing.''

For a time Goodwin appears to consider my face more than my words.

''Can I ask you something? Unrelated.''

''Unrelated's okay with me.''

''You live alone?''

''You first.''

''Me? Yeah. I'm a bachelor,'' he says, the word hanging decisively in the air as though a permanent designation.

''Me too. Why?''

''Just curious. Sometimes I think I can pick them out.''

''Bachelors?''

''Lonely people.''

Goodwin checks his watch again.

''We've got fifteen minutes,'' he says. ''I'm not as fast as I used to be on those stairs. In fact I've never been fast on those stairs.''

But neither of us moves.

''This is an inappropriate question to ask at this point, I know. But I have to ask it.'' Goodwin pushes his chin into his neck. ''Do you really think Tripp did it? Just him, I mean, all on his own?''

''I think there's evil in the world. That there has to be because nothing else can explain some of the things people do.''

''That, counsel, is not a direct answer.''

With this the big man rises, squeezes through the space between desk and wall, and waits for me when he reaches the door.

''You coming down with me or is Tripp going to be without representation this morning?'' he asks, turning to look back at the heap that was once Bartholomew Christian Crane, that still is, sitting in his office chair.

''I'm coming with you,'' I say, and with another miraculous breath manage to rise and walk myself.

Once downstairs I grab the cellular out of my bag and stand outside the doors, play the familiar tune of Lyle, Gederov's number. The snow has started again. A rustle of powder on my shoulders, collecting on the courthouse lawn even in the time it takes the receptionist to pick up and transfer me to Graham's office.

''Bartholomew! How lovely you called! This must be your breakfast break. Can I ask you something? Are you getting enough protein? Just this morning someone was telling me about the importance of protein to stimulate-- oh, bugger it, how are you?''

''I've got some news I want you to hear from me before you hear it from anywhere else. And I'd appreciate it if I could speak to you alone on this.''

''What's going on, Bartholomew? But wait, before you go any farther, maybe we really should get Bert in on this, because if he finds out we've been having private talks behind his back he's likely to turn extremely bitchy on both of us.''

''Can't we just have a conversation between the two--''

''Well hel-lo, Bert!'' Graham calls too loudly out his open office door. ''Guess who's on the other end of this line? Bartholomew! Would you like a word?''

In the background there's an unidentifiable barnyard sound, the passage of gas from a bull's guts.

''Isn't this opportune? Bert just walked in the very moment you called!'' Graham nearly squeals, an exaggerated tone from a man noted for his exaggerated tones. Then there's a click over the line and our voices expand in the vacant air of the speakerphone.

''Well, now, Bartholomew, what gives us the pleasure of hearing your voice today?''

''I doubt what I have to say will give either of you any pleasure.''

''Well, tell us, then. What is this pleasureless bulletin?''

''I'm going to plead Tripp guilty today.''

''Beg pardon?''

''It's over. I changed his plea.''

Graham makes a flapping sound with his lips.

''This is something of a shock, Bartholomew, I must say--''

''What the fuck do you mean, you changed his plea?''

''I convinced him it was the only course to take. And then he confessed.''

''To who?''

''To me.''

''So now you're going to fucking give this to them?''

''I'm about to.''

''No, you're goddamn not. You're off this file as of now.''

''You can't do that, Bert. This is my case. You gave it to me to handle on my own and this is the way it's going to go.''

''You're wrong there, pally boy. Because you're fucking done. You hear me? You do this and we'll be lucky if this guy doesn't sue us out of business! Have you forgotten how this works? You're supposed to be on his side, and instead you want to go and tie the bloody noose around his bloody neck, for God's sake! Now, why the fuck would you do something like that? Why are you screwing the Crown up the ass for free? Eh? Could you tell me that, please?''

''This was my decision, Bert.''

''That's where you're wrong. It's never been your decision, you little prick. It's this firm's decision. It's our names on the line. You're just an employee, remember? You're nobody. So whatever you do, whatever stupid decisions you make, make us look