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got up and shook Will’s hand.
    “Pretty fair. Will.
    How’bout you?”
    Will knew the sheriff as well as most lawyers in small counties knew sheriffs.
    “Can’t complain. Course, I’m not too happy about you putting my innocent client in jail.”
    The sheriff grinned.
    “I reckon I can make it stick.”
    “He’d like to have his van back for his girlfriend to use.
    Can I have the keys?”
    Cox shook his head.
    “Nope, it’s impounded as evidence.”
    “Can I have a look at it?”
    “Nope. Investigation is still in progress.”
    Will hadn’t expected to get to see the van.
    “You’ll send me the crime lab report, though, won’t you?” He was entitled to see all the lab results.
    “And the autopsy report on the victim?”
    “Oh, sure. Don’t think I’ll have anything for you before the middle of next week, though. These folks take their time.”
    “That’ll be okay. Listen, when you’re finished with the van, can Moody’s girl have it? No point in hanging on to it until the trial, is there?” “We’ll see,” the sheriff said cagily.
    Will left the jail, got into his car, and followed Larry Moody’s directions to his house. It turned out to be a shell home, one of those bought as nothing more than four walls and a roof, then finished by the owner. The little place sat on a lot bare of grass, separated from the road by a deep drainage ditch. Will pulled his car onto the wide shoulder of the road, got out and crossed a crude footbridge over the ditch. He found the flowerpot, which contained the remnants of some dead plant, and the key, and let himself into the house.
    There was a surprising amount of furniture, most of it inexpensive and new-looking, packed into the small living room. There was a stacked stereo system in a rack against the wall, next to a large color television set and an expensive video tape recorder. The tiny dining room was given over to an elaborate weightlifting system. Judging from the amount of stuff in the house, and guessing at what the income of a furnace repairman must be, Willy could see why Larry Moody couldn’t afford a lawyer. He must be in hock up to his ears, what with all this stuff and the van.
    Will stood for a moment, taking it all in. He was about to move toward the bedroom to collect Larry’s gear, when the front door suddenly opened, and he found himself facing a young woman.
    She stood stock-still, staring at him, surprised.
    Will was struck by how pretty—almost beautiful—she was. Her hair was even blonder than Larry’s, and he thought it must be her own color; her eyes were large and vividly blue; her nose was slight; and her lips were full and wide. She was no more than five feet four, but so well proportioned that she seemed taller. She was the first to speak.
    “Who are you?” she asked, her brow wrinkling. Her speech was firm and broadly accented, much like her boyfriend’s.
    “My name is Will Lee. I’m a lawyer, representing Larry Moody. I’m sorry if I startled you; Larry asked me to come here and pick up some things for him.” He stopped talking for a moment, but she didn’t speak. They stood, looking at each other.
    “You must be Charlene Joiner,” he said finally.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Somebody came in the store a few minutes ago and said they’d heard Larry was in some kind of trouble. I got a ride home.”
    “Yes, I’m afraid he is. I’ve just come from the jail; the court has appointed me to represent him.” He stopped, unwilling to break the news to her.
    “Well,” she said, her voice rising slightly, “are you going to tell me what’s happened?”
    “I’m sorry,” Will stammered.
    “Look, you’d better come sit down for a minute.”
    She sat next to him on the sofa, facing him, clear-eyed, expressionless, as he told her about the charges against Larry. When he had finished, she stood up and shrugged off the parka she had been wearing. Beneath it was a yellow nylon smock with the Magi Mart logo emblazoned upon