Guilt

'I'm not crying.'

'Leave him alone, Isaac.' Jacob pushed at his older brother. 'He can cry if he wants to.'

'I'm not crying, you guys!'

'Shh! Shh! It's okay.' Nat smiled at the customers around them who were looking over at the disturbance. 'Let's try to keep restaurant voices, all right? Oh, and look, here comes your dad now.'

Eleven o'clock, Glitsky's kitchen.

'Abraham, they need you.'

'Everybody needs me, Dad. I'm sick to death of people needing me. I don't have anything to give them.'

'Just some time. That's all they need. Some of your time.'

'I don't have any time. Don't you understand that? Every minute of my days and nights…'

'But this is your own blood. You signed on for this.'

'Not this way I didn't!'

'Any way, Abraham. They didn't ask to be here either, not like this.'

Glitsky stopped pacing and lowered himself on to the ottoman which filled the centre of the small room. His dad leaned against the refrigerator. The two men's voices were low and harsh. They didn't want to wake Rita, sleeping in the dim light of the Christmas tree in the next room.

'You know what went on in this trial today, Dad? To me? You have any idea?'

'Of course.' Nat touched his brow. 'You think I've got Swiss cheese up here? But you know what's going to happen in the next couple of months here, Abraham, you don't start paying attention? You're going to lose these boys. Now which is more important?'

'I'm not going to lose them.'

Nat shook his head. 'Were you listening tonight? They're losing sight of you, son. They read about you in the newspaper, they hear bad stories on the tube. How do they know what to think?'

'They know,' Glitsky said. 'They've got level heads. They know me.'

'This, Abraham, is malarkey. They don't know anymore, not for sure. Jacob tonight said you don't have the same rules as everybody else. Is that your message? Is that what you want to teach them?'

'He doesn't think that.'

'He said it. You go

Glitsky hung his heavy head. After a minute, he raised it again. 'Lord, Dad, I'm tired. When's this Dooher madness going to end? I keep thinking if I could just find more evidence, something that's not ambiguous… because otherwise, he's go

Nat pulled a kitchen chair up in front of his son. 'So then he walks, Abraham. It's not the end of the world. It's one bad man, that's all.'

'But it will look like me, don't you see? It will look like all the accusations against me are true.'

'Which they're not. The people you work with, they know that.'

Glitsky barked a short, humorless laugh. 'That's a beautiful theory, Dad, it really is. But the truth is this could be the end of my credibility.'

'First, you won't lose your job, Abraham. Even if you do, you'll do something else.'

'But I'm a cop, Dad. That's what I do, it's what I am.'

Nat shook his head. 'Before you're a cop, you're a father. After you stop being a cop, you're a father. Your boys, especially now, they need a father.This is your main job. The rest,' he shrugged, 'nobody knows the rest.'

There was a rush to wi

Wes was still at the bar at the Yacht Club, pounding some more Yuletide cheer. Mark had prodded him into coming along. The public appearance would be important, he'd said, especially for after the trial.

Yesterday, after Wes had continued his onslaught against the prosecution, taking apart Emil Balian on the stand, the television news had picked up on him, on the 'brilliant' defense he was conducting. This morning's Chronicle headline had read: Key Prosecution Witness Founders in Dooher Case. The pundits were unanimously calling for a quick verdict of Not Guilty, and Wes was enjoying the celebrity.

Suddenly the world seemed to understand that Wes Farrell was in fact the champion of the underdog and a tiger of a defense lawyer. After five months of tedious trial preparation, hours upon days spent studying transcripts and analyzing evidence in his dingy office or his dirty apartment, after the breakup with Sam and the doubts about his friend, now at last he was getting some recognition for who he was, for what he did – the sweet, sweet, sweet nectar of success that had eluded him for so long.

It was nearly one o'clock and the party was basically over. The staff was folding up tables behind him. The band was breaking down. Wes was alone at the bar just enjoying the living hell out of his sixth or seventh drink, thinking that maybe it had all been worth it, after all.

Christina and Mark had taken the limo home, and he'd need to get a cab later, but that was all right. He wasn't quite ready to call it quits yet.

Mark – his old pal – had been right about coming down for this party. Mark and Christina might have opened a few eyes when they walked in, but it was he, Wes Farrell, who'd been the sensation. Everybody had read the paper today, watched the news over the past nights. Front page, thank you. Yes, it appeared he was wi

Jocko, behind the bar, had become his close personal friend. Imagine, Wes Farrell the working-class guy here all buddy buddy with the bartender at the St Francis Yacht Club. In his wallet, Farrell had at least half a dozen business cards of people he should call, who might know some people who'd need his services. Where had he been hiding, they all wanted to know.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and the Archbishop of San Francisco was asking Wes if they could have a nightcap together. Wes was finally, after a lifetime of mediocrity, moving into Dooher's circle. God, it was intoxicating!

And certainly one more drink, with Jim Flaherty, wouldn't hurt – a little more of that Oban single malt. They touched their glasses together. 'Great party, Your Excellency. I hope you raised a million dollars.'

'Three hundred and ten thousand in pledges,' he said. 'A new record. This is such a generous city.' Flaherty savored his drink. 'It looks like you had a pretty fair night yourself. I saw you holding court in here most of the evening. You're going to get Mark off, aren't you?'

'It looks like it. I don't want to jinx it, but we've certainly got them on the run.'

The Archbishop sighed. 'How did it even get to this?'

Farrell looked sideways at him. 'It's bad luck to make enemies in the police department. Glitsky's a bad cop.'

'Who just got promoted.'

Again, a sidelong glance. What was Flaherty getting at? He couldn't figure it exactly, so he shrugged. 'He's black. It's his turn.' Then, on a hunch, the new Farrell blurted it right out. 'You having doubts?'

'About Mark? Never. It's just the accusations. You can't help but have them affect your view a little, can you?'

'No, I don't think so. I've had a few myself – doubts – tell the truth. You wonder how many other cases, witnesses show up out of the woodwork who say they saw something, or heard it, or smelled it. What is it, power of suggestion?'

'I think it must be.' The Archbishop sipped his drink.

'Your Excellency,' Farrell said quietly. 'You're not getting cold feet about testifying for us, are you?'

'No, of course not.'

'Good, because I don't know if we're going to need you, but if we do, I wouldn't like to open the door and then have it close on us.'

'No, I understand.'

They both stared out through the rain-pocked glass. Faintly, they heard the wind as it pushed the cypresses nearly to the ground.

'Lousy night out there, isn't it?' Flaherty said. Then, 'You know, when this is over and Mark is found Not Guilty, we ought to try to make this up to him somehow. First he loses his wife, which is horrible enough, then the burden of this trial. He's been through the wringer. I don't know how he's surviving.'