The only good Lawyer

means gambling that Gant is going to drive back this way to his condo instead of taking or following the woman home.”
    “I suppose, but there’s another reason to think Woodrow Gant was alone when he got shot. We traced the man’s movements that day. Found out he had the car washed and waxed after lunch. Armor All on the dash and upholstery, whole nine yards. There wasn’t a readable latent on the BMW or in it that didn’t belong to Gant or one of the wash crew we took elimination prints from.”
    I looked at Murphy. “Which leads you to think no passenger in the car.”
    He held my gaze. “Right.”
    “And Spaeth’s threats at the law firm combined with his prints on the shell casings found in the murder weapon lead you to believe he did the killing.”
    “Right again.”
    “So this should be another... bunny, then.” Murphy looked away. “Just about.”
    “Only if it were,” I said, “you wouldn’t be out here with me, going over things as much for your benefit as mine.”
    Abruptly, Murphy walked toward the ribboned tree. I followed him.
    When we got there, he turned his back to the trunk, eyes ranging around the valley. “You take away all the cars going by, this is a real pretty spot.”
    “Lieutenant—”
    “Shut up a minute, listen to what I’m saying.”
    I nodded.
    Murphy spoke more quietly. “Nationwide, what percentage of the population you think is African-American?”
    I started to feel we were skating on different, and thinner, ice. “Ten?”
    “About twelve and a half, actually. How about folks on death row or executed in the last twenty years?”
    “No idea.”
    “About forty percent black.”
    “Jesus.”
    Murphy rolled his shoulders into the tree, like a bear scratching an itch. “It gets worse. Nationwide, most of the homicides—eighty percent, in fact— involve victim and killer from the same race. Most of the other twenty percent is black doing white. But here, we’ve got white doing black.”
    Even with the traffic, the crisp October air seemed awfully quiet.
    Murphy said, “There’s not much doubt why this Gant killing landed on my desk. High profile, from a lot of different angles. Victim’s black and a lawyer, plus a former A.D.A. and the third divorce attorney to be killed in the Commonwealth over the last few years. Lots of constituencies interested in this one. And who’s our best suspect? A white opposing client, man who likes to own guns and shoot off his mouth as well. The department expects me to clear this case, get a conviction. But, if your boy walks, the brass wants to be able to sit down—with the bar association, the African-American interest groups, the media—and say, ‘Hey, we put a senior homicide detective on it, and he’s even black, too; no way Murphy’d let Spaeth walk, if the white guy was really guilty.’ “ “Sounds like lots of pressure for you.”
    “Double-boiler.” Murphy clucked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “When I came on Homicide, though, a guy named Peter O’Malley broke me in right. He had over thirty years in the unit, and he told me there’s really just one rule. You never lie anybody into jail.”
    I waited Murphy out.
    He pushed off the tree. “Only thing is, there’s no need to lie here, not even the temptation to do it. We got plenty enough evidence to convict. Motive, threat, means, opportunity. Shit, a third-grader with a Dick Tracy badge could submit this case to the D.A. and not look bad.”
    “Then what’s the problem?”
    A quick, “Experience.”
    “I don’t get you.”
    “Too many things that add up right but feel wrong.” Murphy raised his index finger. “One, we get a call to the local fire station saying there’s a body on the road out here.”
    “The call went to the fire department, not nine-one-one?”
    “Right.”
    “Male or female voice?”
    “Male. Woman taking the call said the man ‘sounded black.’ ”
    I filed that away.
    Murphy raised his middle finger. “Second thing, I was there when we arrested Spaeth the morning after. Brought an Entry Team with a fourteen-pound sledge to go through his door. But hell, your boy’s just lying in that apartment’s bedroom, still half-dressed and still half-crocked. When he asks us what the fuck is going on, I tell him flat out that Woodrow Gant’s been killed. You know what the fucking idiot said?”
    I got ready to cringe. “Do I want to?”
    “Spaeth says, ‘Well, you know what they say. The only good lawyer is