“Mr. Weaver, this is my good friend, and partner, Bob Butler.”

The first man stood. Just over six feet, silver-haired, barrel-chested and strong-jawed, blue eyes. Pushing fifty, or maybe he’d recently pushed past it. Tailored slacks, open-collared white dress shirt, plaid sport jacket. He put out a hand too. The grip was firm.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Madeline has had good things to say about you.”

“And this,” Gloria Pilford said, as the second man stood, “is Grant Finch.”

He was the only one in a suit, and I was betting the Rolex on his wrist was the only one in the room. He’d be the one who owned that Beemer in the driveway. He was slighter shorter than Bob Butler, but his grip was just as firm when we shook hands.

“I’ve also heard good things,” he said, giving me a smile worthy of a game-show letter-turner. Those perfect teeth probably cost as much as his car. “I expect you already know why I’m here. I acted on Jeremy’s behalf during the trial.”

“Most famous lawyer in the country,” I said.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Or infamous, depending on one’s point of view. That’ll last a week or two, then I’ll be forgotten until HBO decides to make this all into a miniseries twenty years from now.”

The way he said it suggested he was counting on it.

Gloria moved the two men aside so I could view the young man slouching in the wicker chair at the end of the porch. Extending her arm in a kind of ta da! gesture, she said, “And last but not least, my son, Jeremy.”

The young man had slid so far down the chair I was worried he might hit the floor. He had the rigidity of boneless chicken. His head was inches from where the cushions met, his eyes focused on the phone he held firmly in his lap in both hands. His thumbs were moving rapidly.

His great-aunt, Ms. Plimpton, had said he was eighteen, but he could have passed for twenty or twenty-one. Short black hair, pasty complexion, as though he’d spent more time looking at video screens than running bases. It was hard to tell how tall he was, given his slithered state, but under six feet.

Without looking away from his phone, he said, “Hey.”

“Jeremy, for God’s sake, shake the man’s hand,” his mother said, like I was a puppy she wanted him to pet.

“It’s okay,” I said, raising a palm. “Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

Gloria smiled awkwardly at me. “Please excuse him. He’s tired, and he’s been under a great deal of stress.”

“We all have,” Bob Butler said.

Gloria had referred to Bob as her friend and partner. He wasn’t the boy’s father. That much seemed clear.

“Of course,” I said.

“Jeremy,” Gloria said, her voice struggling to stay upbeat, “can I get you anything?”

He grunted.

She turned to me for another chance at hospitality. “How about you, Mr. Weaver? A drink?”