“Look at him when you talk,” Sue Beth said.

Earl made eye contact with Decker and repeated the request. Decker said sure, and held himself back from tousling the grown-up boy’s hair. As soon as Decker was out of the interview room, Hollander came up to him.

“I’ve contacted the PD’s office,” he said. “Someone should be over within a half hour.”

“Couldn’t get anyone sooner?”

“Half hour’s the norm, Pete.”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I know. I just don’t want them to walk.”

“Then take the confession,” Hollander said.

“And have the whole thing tossed because the kid didn’t know what he was signing?”

“But she supposedly knew what she was signing.”

“But we don’t know if she’s legally responsible for the kid.”

Hollander said. “The confession’s probably BS anyway. Take what you can get.”

“I will, if it comes to that,” Decker said. “But if I can make it kosher, all the better. If there’s any trace of truth in the kid’s spiel, I don’t want some asshole judge throwing all of it out on a technicality.”

“You should be able to guard against that, Esquire.”

“Nuh-uh,” Decker said. “I start thinking I can do it all, I fuck up.”

Hollander peered at Sue Beth through the window. “Our lady’s gettin’ antsy. You’d better think of something to keep her interest from flagging.”

Decker said, “There’s always your tap-dance routine.”

Hollander laughed.

“Give Sue Beth more papers to fill out,” Decker said. “That should buy us some time.”

“What kind of papers? She filled out everything they had to.”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “Give her our health histories forms…and the car registrations triplicates. Anything that’ll keep her occupied. I’ll go get them refreshments.”

“Righto.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sue Beth had a hand cramp and was ready to walk out. Decker was just about to take Earl’s “confession” when Hollander opened the door.

“Counselor’s here, Sergeant.”

Decker inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He assured Sue Beth that they’d be ready any second now.

He left the room, waved hello to Louis Nixon, an old-timer. Twenty years in the Public Defender’s Office, yet the guy was as mellow as fine wine. Nixon was a bespectacled, coffee-colored man of fifty, with a glint in his dark eyes, and a wide smile for any dirty joke. Over the years, coiled threads of silver had weaved into his close-cropped Afro.

Hollander said, “If I’m not needed, folks, I think I’ll go down to the hospital.”

“Let me know what’s going on,” Decker said.

“You bet.”

After Hollander left, Nixon asked, “What’s up, Pete?”