A week later my phone rang in the middle of the night. I was sleeping alone then, and there was nothing to do but answer it. A call in the night could mean anything. This one meant Sawyer had a hostage and a gun at the state fund building and wanted me to look at his workers’ comp file. The hostage specialists in town, such as they were, said I didn’t have to go in. But I was afraid of what they might do to him, so I stood in front of my closet deciding whether to wear lawyer clothes or not, then pulled on jeans and put a bra on under the sweatshirt I’d slept in. In the parking lot behind the building, the cops had three patrol cars, the bureau chief from the office, and a big thermos of coffee. They had Sawyer on the telephone, and said he was calm. The hostage was a night watchman, a Samoan kid who’d come here to play football at the college. I’d known his name once, something long with a’s and n’s in it, but everyone called him Big Man. I was impressed, just for a moment, that my client had taken Big Man down.

I drank the coffee while the bureau chief drew me a map of the office. They gave me keys and a heavy, bulletproof vest, and I changed awkwardly in the back of a squad car, the vest cold under my sweatshirt, against my skin. The officer who helped me fasten it had written a report for a child-support case of mine, including the line, “The defendant instructed me to consume feces.” I’d always liked him. He socked me on the shoulder and told me to do good, and I went in.

The building was four stories, dark brick, at the end of the old gold-rush main street. It was dark inside, and the bottom floor was all cubicles, the burlap-faced dividers hung with calendars and cartoons. I found my way to the stairs by the light of screen savers and exit signs, and walked up to the third floor, where my client was keeping Big Man.

“Sawyer?” I called, as I came out of the stairwell into another dark maze of cubicles. “It’s me. I’m here to find your file.”

I heard a rustling noise, but no one answered.

“Should I come to you or go get the file?” I asked.

Sawyer’s voice came out of the gloom, hoarse and tired. “Go get the file,” he said.

I couldn’t tell which cubicle the voice came from, but it was on the east side of the building, to my right. The cops had told me to engage in conversation. “Is Big Man okay?” I asked.

“His name is Amituana,” Sawyer said. “Did you know he’s a member of the Samoan royal family?”