Helen gazed up at him. Even at sixty-four years old, Butch still reminded Helen of a matinee idol with his athletic frame; thick, perfectly combed hair; and toothy grin. The only differences were that his once blond locks were now silver, and his blue eyes, which had always seemed to carry a hint of mischief, now contained the dull and permanently bloodshot afterglow of alcohol abuse. “Are you drunk?” she asked.

He scoffed and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to take my ex-wife to dinner. That’s not a crime is it, General?” He forced a smile, and Helen noticed he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s nervous, she thought. “Or maybe you don’t want to go to dinner because you’re dating someone,” Butch said, squinting down at her.

Helen felt a tingle of irritation, but she bit her lip to quell it. There was something wrong here. Since their divorce almost twenty years ago, Butch had kept his distance, occasionally calling her but never stopping in to see Helen at work. “Who I date is none of your business,” she said, her voice measured.

“Have you seen anyone since . . . Professor McMurtrie?”

Helen felt a wave of sadness ripple through her. More than a year had passed since Tom McMurtrie had succumbed to lung cancer, but hearing his name was like a kick to the stomach. For a moment, she struggled to breathe. His loss had begun to resemble a wound that almost had started to heal and then, at the mention of a place, the recall of a memory, or sometimes even a whiff of aftershave, broke open, and the hurt was fresh and even more painful than before.

“Are you OK, Helen?”

Helen exhaled and bit her lip. She glared at her ex-husband, unwilling to show any weakness or vulnerability in front of him. “Why are you here?”

Butch took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them together while gazing down at the floor. Then he walked around the front row of the jury and took a seat next to Helen in the back. “I’m in trouble,” he whispered, still looking at the floor.

Helen’s stomach tightened. “You need money?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” He shook his head and turned to look at her. The whites of his eyeballs were a forest of red fissures, and she smelled the familiar scent of bourbon masked by mouthwash on his breath. “I need you to dismiss the rape charge against Michael Zannick and plead him to a misdemeanor.” He paused. “A slap on the wrist.”

Helen shot to her feet. “Lou did send you.”

“No,” Butch said. “He didn’t.”

Helen picked up her file jacket and placed it under her arm. “Then Zannick did. You’re in deep with that son of a bitch, aren’t you?”