Angus said into the cell, "Look, we can file an entry of appearance and brief electronically. All you have to do is appear before Judge Pratter, make the motion, and explain that the extern can't be there because the program's been suspended."
Nat looked around, surprised to find she'd been completely wrong about his office. Books, case reporters, and law reviews stood straight as soldiers in clean oak bookcases. Accordion files sat on the credenza in alphabetical order. There was no Che Guevara poster; only tastefully framed reproductions of pirates, sea captains, and knights, painted in vivid washes of watercolor. The signature was N. C. Wyeth. Nat amended her psychological profile of their collector: a socialist with a Hero Complex.
"Then get an associate to do it, Jake. What's your pro bono commitment this year? This family has no heat and it's twenty-five degrees outside."
Diplomas hung discreetly near the window, one from Williams College, another from Harvard Law, and one for "Sally" from The Doggie Obedience School of Delaware County. Black notebooks sat stacked on a table, next to a Bose iPod player and a cube of jazz CDs and mix tapes. A white Sony TV on a shelf played on mute, and on the screen, the female hosts of The View were interrupting one another in merciful silence.
"Great! Thanks, bro." Angus closed the phone and brushed back a stray hair. "Sorry to make you wait. I'm trying to get these appearances covered with no notice, and it's impossible."
"Can't the kids help? Why is Daddy making all the calls?"
"These they can't help with." Angus leaned against the credenza. "I'm cashing in every chit I have. That last guy was the managing partner at Pepper and my law school roommate."
"Who's Alanis Morrisette out front? She almost didn't let me in."
"Deirdre? She's a little protective."
"She's a little in love."
"Admiration is not love." Angus cocked his head. "Why are you so cranky? We didn't get beaten up or yelled at today-though it's still early."
Nat realized she'd sounded oddly jealous. "I got a phone call last night, from a man who told me to stay out of Chester County."
"I got the same call. Did you star-69 him?"
"He was out of the service area."
"Same here." Angus frowned. "But why'd he call you? You're a victim. You're not representing anybody out there."
"If I got a call, it's not related to a representation. It's related to the riot and maybe to Barb Saunders."
"Right. Weird."
"It could be one of Buford's friends or family. He may not want me to testify against him."
"Possible, but not likely. He won't come to trial for a year or so."
Angus shook his head. "I still don't get why he called you. You're not the one who has business in Chester County. I am."
"I am, too." Nat hadn't filled him in about yesterday. "I'm supposed to go to Barbara Saunders's this week. I didn't tell her anything when we went out there. She wasn't up to it."
"So are you saying that's why they called you? You think someone's trying to prevent you from telling her? Why would they?"
"No, not that. Only she and I knew I hadn't told her yesterday."
"Oh." Angus paused, lost in thought. "What about Joe Graf? He's not a fan of ours."
"Did it sound like him to you?"
"I don't know his voice that well."
"Me neither," Nat said. "Why wouldn't he want us out there?"
"Maybe we're a reminder that he didn't help Saunders, or it makes him look bad. Who knows? I'm supposed to go back to the prison today. They're letting me see my client. I wonder if Graf is back on the job."
"I doubt it. Are you still going?"
"Of course, I have to. But you don't." Angus folded his arms, bulky in the thick sweater. "Why don't you call Barb Saunders, instead of going there? It's good enough under the circumstances. Or write her a letter."
"Why don't I just email? 'Re: Your Husbands Last Words'"
Angus smiled. "What does Mr. Greco say to your going out there?"
"Hank? Same as you." Or, we're not speaking.
Angus's cell rang, and he checked the display. "Sorry, I have to take this." He opened the phone. "Frank, thanks for getting back to me. My extern program is on hiatus, and I need a litigator to get me a continuance from Padova today, at two. Can you help?"
Nat looked away. On TV, The View had given way to the local news at noon. An anchorwoman came on, and the scene switched to a living room. A young woman talked into a station-logo microphone as she sat teary-eyed on a couch. The living room looked familiar. So did the woman.
"He picked up a possession charge," Angus was saying. "Coke, second offense. But he's a good kid. He got caught doing a line in the bathroom at a club, Privato. Oh, yeah? Then don't go back, or don't pee.
It took Nat a second to recognize the woman on TV. It was Barb Saunders's sister, Jennifer. The living room was in the Saunders' house. It must be a follow-up story to Ron Saunders's murder at the prison.
"Angus, look." Nat got up, crossed to the TV, and hit the Volume button.
"Hold on, Frank." Angus glanced at the TV screen. "Lemme call you back, bro."
The voiceover said, "The widow and her three children were at the funeral when the burglar struck, absconding with two computers, cash, and jewelry. It seems heartless that someone would take advantage of such a terrible tragedy, but state police say it isn't uncommon. Burglars read the obituaries, too, and know that homes will be empty at that time."
"She was burglarized?" Nat watched as the camera panned a ransacked living room. Children's DVDs and picture books had been torn from shelves. The drawers of the computer workstation had been dumped on the floor. The couch had been slashed, its pink stuffing yanked out. It looked like the room had been searched. As if someone had been looking for something.
It's under the floor.
The anchorwoman reappeared. "In other news, a warehouse fire in the city's Tioga section…"
"What the hell?" Nat lowered the volume, trying to process the information, and Angus crossed to his computer. "Let's get the full story," he said, and Nat joined him at his laptop.
He hit a few keys and found the news article. The headline read, Chester County Widow Burglarized During Funeral, and the story confirmed the TV account, adding that $378 had been stolen from the Saunders home. Nat felt a clutch in her chest for Barb, having to endure so much. Then she had a darker thought.
"Something odd is going on," she said. "This isn't a random act. It has to be connected to the riot, and maybe the phone calls."
"You know, call me crazy, but I don't think that was a burglary. I think that person was looking for something."
Bingo. "What makes you say that?" Nat wanted to test his rationale. He didn't know yet about the message Saunders had given her.
"The couches were slashed. No burglar slashes couches. I see that in our drug cases. Drug dealers keep cash in the cushions. It's the first place a rival gang looks, or the cops."
Two heads are better than one. "I should tell you what Saunders said to me before he died. He said, 'Tell my wife it's under the floor.'"
"Are you serious?" Angus's blue eyes widened, now that the swelling had gone down. "Whoa."
"Exactly."
"So you think whatever they were looking for is under the floor?"
"Maybe. But what could it be? I was thinking maybe a will or some money. Now you have me thinking drugs or drug money."
"Maybe Saunders was crooked."
"I can't believe it." Nat thought of Barb, the modest house, and the kids with the Game Boy. "I know there are crooked prison guards, but I can't believe it of him, of that family."
"You don't know anything about Saunders, or what he did while he was alive. Drug money can corrupt anybody." Angus handed her his cell phone, which was still warm. "Call Barb Saunders now. With this burglary, break-in, or whatever it was, she needs to know that something is under her floor. Assuming the burglars didn't find it already."