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and over in her mind as she drove back to Delano. She could fudge her report on the meeting; Ed’s second letter would help with that. Somebody would interview her about it; she could handle that part. What she couldn’t handle was Ed Rawls. He was smart as a whip and as skilled in intelligence work as any man alive. He would do what he was going to do, and she couldn’t stop him. Even if she called the warden and had him lockeddown until after the election, he would find a way. But how much did he know? He had said that Joe Adams was “ill,” but did he know the nature of the illness?
    She would not tell Will any of this. That she could not do.

7
    Will left the farm and drove into Delano, to his and his father’s law office. The firm of Lee & Lee had been central to the family’s life since Billy had founded it after his return from World War II. It provided a business center for the family and outside income from cases, local and statewide, which had helped the Lees build a comfortable life. Now the firm was called Lee, Lee & Robertson, to include their partner of recent years, Tim Robertson, who, since Billy’s virtual retirement and Will’s election to the Senate, had essentially run the firm.
    Will was stopped half a dozen times between his parking place and the front door of the little office building they had erected years before. Everyone in town knew him, of course, and he knew practically everyone. Small talk of families and friends was exchanged, and, finally, he made it into the building. His office was neat and dusted, and a stack of mail and telephone messages was waiting for him. He wentthrough it quickly. Apart from a personal letter or two from old friends, most of it was requests for constituent services. He stuffed those into a large envelope and marked it for forwarding to his Atlanta constituency office, then turned to the phone messages, answering a couple and scribbling notes for Tim Robertson or his secretary to answer the others. The last message in the pile gave him pause. It read, “Charlene Joiner would like to speak with you urgently,” and the return number was in the 310 area code.
    Will stared at the message, and a flood of memories came back. He remembered defending her boyfriend, one Larry Eugene Moody, against charges of rape and murder in a trial that fell in the middle of his first campaign for the Senate; he remembered losing the trial; and, most of all, he remembered a hot summer’s afternoon spent, naked, with the beautiful Charlene in the little lake beside his cottage and in his bed. He and Kate had not yet been married, or even engaged, and they had been estranged at the moment when Charlene turned up at the cottage. He remembered the flurry that the brief affair had caused in his campaign, and how it had probably worked out to his benefit in the election. But most of all, he remembered Charlene, naked, uninhibited, and imaginative. He felt a married man’s guilt for the stirring that came with the memory.
    After a moment’s thought, he dialed the number.
    “Hello?” she said after the fourth ring. Her voice was sleepy, husky.
    “Charlene? It’s Will Lee.”
    “Will? How are you?” She was suddenly wide-awake.
    “I’m very well. I’m sorry to call so early; I forgot about the time difference between here and L.A.”
    “It’s all right; I’ve got a ten o’clock call today; I’d have to get up anyway.”

    “I saw one of your movies on TV not long ago—the one about the singer.”
    “ Country Blues ? Oh, yeah; I got a nomination for that.”
    “I thought you were terrific; I’m glad about the way your career has worked out.”
    “Thank you, Will; that’s nice to hear.”
    “You’re living in L.A. all the time, then?”
    “In Malibu; that’s where I am now. Keep the number, so if you’re out here, maybe we can get together.”
    Will didn’t want to reply to that. “What are you doing next?”
    “I’ve just signed to do a film with Vance Calder