Rina had planned the trip’s itinerary. The trio would leave New York Monday night, then spend two days with Decker’s aging parents in Florida. Visiting them was something he should have done a while ago. Perhaps this unplanned trek was a wake-up call in disguise.

Jonathan was waiting for them at the baggage counter. He was thinner than Decker had remembered, his brother’s beard now equal portions of brown and gray. Bleary red-rimmed eyes tried to focus under small wire-rimmed glasses. But his dress was sharp—a blue tone-on-tone, windowpane suit, white shirt, and a bright gold tie woven in a chevron pattern. After a round of genuine hugs and kisses—the appropriate cooing at Hannah, who was grumpy and groggy—Decker commented on his sartorial splendor.

“That’s because we have an appointment in forty-five minutes,” Jonathan replied. “You said get a great criminal defense lawyer, and that’s what I did. He also happens to be a frum Yid. Early morning was the only time he could work us in. He’s noted for discounting his time for Jews in trouble. But, as I talked to him, I could tell that he was intrigued by the case. I think he’s curious to meet you.”

Decker grabbed a big black valise off the conveyor belt. Thank goodness for frames with wheels. “One more bag. Why is he curious to meet me?”

“Because you’re a cop… on the other side, so to speak.”

“That’s our other bag, Peter,” Rina said.

Decker grabbed the second suitcase. They loaded up Jonathan’s dented silver 1993 Chrysler minivan, Rina insisting that Peter sit in the front. Within a few minutes, they were on their way.

The air was cold and biting—typical March weather, Jonathan told him. Dark rain clouds hung above, heavy and gray like soiled laundry. Whatever foliage there was had yet to bloom and the naked branches swayed like cobwebs in a brisk wind. The highway was moving—one less thing to be concerned about—but because of the speed, the van took the potholes with spine-numbing jolts. To Decker’s eyes, the surrounding area looked worn and depressed—a mixture of old factory buildings, some commercial retail shops, and unadorned redbrick apartment houses. Graffiti littered the concrete walls of the roadway.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Queens,” Rina said. “Is this Astoria?”

“Not yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Decker said. “It all looks the same to me. Tell me more about the Orthodox lawyer.”

“He made time for us, Akiva. Time that he could ill afford considering he’s representing Anna Broughder.”

Anna Broughder. The woman dubbed by the papers as Lizzie Borden II. She had been arrested for killing both of her parents by hacking them to death with a cleaver. She had claimed it had been done by a group of crazed druggies. Somehow she had escaped through the bathroom window, sustaining only a few minor scratches to the forearms and one rather large gash to her palm. A 200-million-dollar inheritance was at stake.

“Leon Hershfield,” Decker stated.

“That’s the one. The case has had coverage in L.A.?”