She waited . . . and still he didn’t reply. He just sat there, breathing evenly, all coiled power with his cuffed hands set on the tabletop and his huge body crammed into the chair.

On the first meeting, most of the clients she’d had here either slouched and did the sullen routine, or they played all indignant and offended, with a lot of exculpatory talk. He did neither. His spine was straight as an arrow, and he was totally alert, but he didn’t say a word.

She cleared her throat. “The charges against you are serious. The guy you were fighting with was sent to the hospital with a brain hemorrhage. Right now you’re up for second-degree assault and attempted murder, but if he dies, that’s murder two or manslaughter.”

Nothing.

“Mr. Rothe, I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may?”

No reply.

Grier sat back. “Can you even hear me?”

Just as she was wondering whether he had an undisclosed disability, he spoke. “Yes, ma’am.”

His voice was so deep and arresting, she stopped breathing. Those two words were uttered with a softness that was at total odds with the size of his body and the harshness of his face. And his accent . . . vaguely Southern, she decided.

“I’m here to help you, Mr. Rothe. You understand that, right?”

“No disrespect, ma’am, but I don’t believe you can.”

Definitely Southern. Beautifully Southern, as a matter of fact.

Shaking her head clear, she said, “Before you dismiss me, I’d suggest you consider two things. Right now, there’s no bail set for you, so you’re going to be stuck in here as your case moves forward. And that could be months. Also, anyone who represents himself truly does have a fool for a client—that’s not just a saying. I’m not the enemy. I’m here to—”

He finally looked at her.

His eyes were the color of frost on window glass, and filled with the shadows of deeds that stained the soul. And as that grim, exhausted stare bored through the back of her head, it froze her heart: She knew instantly that he wasn’t just some street thug.

He was a soldier, she thought. He had to be—her father got the same look in his eyes during quiet nights.

War did that to people.

“Iraq?” she asked quietly. “Or Afghanistan?”

His brows flared a little, but that was the only reply she got.

Grier tapped his file. “Let me get you bail. Let’s just start there, okay? You don’t have to tell me anything about why you were arrested or what happened. I just need to know your ties to the community and a little more about where you live. With no prior arrests, I think we’ve got a shot at . . .”

She stopped as she realized he’d closed his eyes.