Guilt

'It was the same car!'

A subtle shake of the head, Farrell indicating to the jury that no, it wasn't. And here's why. 'When was the first time you talked to police, Mr Balian?'

'I told you, the next day.'

'And Lieutenant Glitsky asked if you'd seen anything unusual in the neighborhood, right?'

'Right.'

'And you told him about the car, and Lieutenant Glitsky pointed to the brown Lexus parked in Mr Dooher's driveway, and asked you if that was the car, didn't he?'

'Yes.'

'And it looked like the car, didn't it?'

Balian sat forward, tired of all this. 'I'm pretty sure it was the same car.'

Farrell nodded. 'You're pretty sure. Thank you.'

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

One of Archbishop Flaherty's predecessors had organized The Corporate Santa Claus Party to give a year-end tax incentive for businesses to help provide toys, games, clothes, and various other Christmas presents for the underprivileged children in the city and county of San Francisco. This year the St Francis Yacht Club was hosting the event, which was the society set's unofficial launch of the season's hectic party schedule. Over 300 guests – the cream of the city's business community – had gathered for an evening of dining and dancing to big-band music.

Mark Dooher, in his tuxedo, was in his element, among friends. The room, like the people in it, was elegantly turned out. Dessert and coffee had been cleared away and the band had kicked into what some guests had decided was a danceable version of Joy to the World.

Christina had been amazed and gratified by the volume and apparent sincerity of expressions of support and sympathy for Mark. Now they were alone at their table. She held his hand under it.

'Look at Wes,' she said to Mark. 'It looks like he's finally having some fun.'

The bark of Wes Farrell's laughter carried across the room, even over the band. Everybody who wanted to buy Wes a drink had succeeded, and he wasn't feeling much pain.

Dooher looked over benevolently. 'He deserves it. He's been doing a hell of a job, but the guy's been killing himself. I didn't really know – even knowing him my whole life – that he had all that fight in him. I think he's going to have himself a career after this.'

Christina squeezed his hand, was silent a moment, then said, 'I don't know if I am.'

Surprised, he looked at her. 'What do you mean?'

She shrugged. 'I don't think this is the kind of law I want to do.'

'Why not? You're getting an innocent man off. Don't you feel good about that?'

'Sure, I feel great about that. But how it has to be done.' Her free hand reached for the salt shaker and poured a small pile of it on to the linen, then traced circles with what she'd poured. 'Last night I couldn't get my mind off poor Mr Balian, how he looked when Wes got finished with him. And bringing up that stuff with Lieutenant Glitsky… I know it has to be done. They got it wrong, but-'

'I can't tell you how much good it does me to hear you say that again. I thought you'd given up faith in me.'

Again, she squeezed his hand. 'You were right,' she said. 'It is faith. There's unanswered questions about almost everything else in life. It's just here they seem so ominous.'

'I know. Sometimes, the past couple of months, they almost had me thinking I did it after all. I mean, I remembered being at the driving range. I remember coming home and finding Sheila. But when I first heard about Balian, or the blood, I wondered where those things could have come from. Maybe I blanked, went sleepwalking, something. Maybe I did it.' He squeezed her hand. 'But I didn't. I can't blame you for having your doubts.'

'It's just so hard to see these other people – Glitsky and Mr Balian and Amanda Jenkins – doing what they do. I have to think they really believe they're right.'

Dooher was silent for a moment, wrestling with it. 'People get committed to their positions. Glitsky got himself committed, and he sold it to Jenkins. I think that's what's got us to here. But we can't let them ruin our lives. We've got to fight back. That's the world, Christina. Misunderstandings. I don't know if people are malicious -I don't like to think so. But sometimes they're just wrong, and what are we supposed to do about that?'

'I know,' she said. 'But seeing Wes take them apart, that's hard for me. And if we do get to this Diane Price as one of their witnesses, it'll be me up there, and it will feel personal, and I don't know if that is me.'

'You'll do fine.'

But she was shaking her head. 'No, not that. I'm not worried whether or not I can do it. I know what I'm going to be asking her – I've rehearsed it a hundred times. As you guys say, I'll eat her for lunch. But I have to tell you, I'm not comfortable with it. This isn't what I feel I was born to do.'

He covered her hand with both of his, leaned in toward her. 'What do you think you were born to do, Christina?'

'I don't know really. Something less confrontational, I guess. There must be something in the law-'

'No,' he interrupted, 'I don't mean with the law. I'm not talking about your professional life. You'll do fine there, whatever you decide. I mean you personally. What were you born to do?'

Her finger went back to spreading the salt around. The band finished one song and started another. 'I don't know anymore, Mark. I don't think about that.'

'But you used to know?'

She shrugged. 'I used to have dreams. Now…' She trailed off, biting down on her lip. 'It's stupid. You grow up and all the variables have changed and what you thought you wanted isn't really an option anymore.' She met his eyes.

He raised her hand and turned her palm to him, kissing it gently. 'You're thinking an old man like me – hell, nearly fifty, there's no way I'd want what you used to think you were born for…'

'I don't…'

He touched her lips with his index finger. 'Which is babies, a family, a normal life like your parents have, is that it? Is that what you used to think you were born for?'

She pressed her lips together. Her eyes were liquid with tears, and she nodded.

'Because,' he said, 'we could do that. We could have all the kids you want. I didn't do so well the first time around, maybe we could both start over. Together.'

She leaned her head in against his. He brought his arms up around her and felt her shoulders give. Holding her there against him, he whispered, 'Whatever you want, it's do-able, Christina. We can do it. Whatever you want. Anything.'

Nat Glitsky left a message for his son at Homicide, then braved the new storm that had just arrived air mail from Alaska. He got to Abe's duplex, where he told Rita she could take the night off. He was driving his three grandsons downtown where they were going to meet their father at the Imperial Palace in Chinatown for dim sum, Nat's treat.

It had been a tough-enough year for the family, and after Abe's testimony at the trial, Nat's personal seismograph – sensitive to these things – had picked up rumblings with the boys that made him uncomfortable. Now they were all on the first round of pot stickers. Their father hadn't shown up yet, and the rumblings were continuing. 'What I don't get,' Jacob was grousing, 'is no matter what time we plan something, Dad's late, even if it's like five minutes from where he works.'

'Your old man's busy, Jake, he's in the middle of a trial on top of his regular job.' But it bothered Nat, too, and checking his watch every five minutes, he wasn't entirely successful at hiding it. 'He'll be here. He's coming.'