Jingjing spoke her next words carefully, as if from a script, and with barely a trace of an accent. “International sex trafficking.”

MY ONLY VISITOR was my court-appointed public defender, Harold Watkins. He was fortysomething, seriously overweight, and perpetually short of breath. He was more experienced than the PDs assigned to most of my fellow inmates—a murder charge warranted a more senior defender—but since it was only second-degree murder, I suspected he was only a second-stringer. In any event I found him wanting. Especially when he began every visit by pushing the idea of a plea. I didn’t want to face trial, he warned me. The DA might knock the charge down to manslaughter, he thought—

I stopped him cold. “No deal,” I said, and handed him a typewritten page. By that time I’d earned enough goodwill from my work supervisors that I was allowed the use of the office equipment, and I’d used it to prepare a list of assignments for Watkins. The law entitled me to the government-paid assistance of counsel, and I intended to fully avail myself of it. I’d come a long way from the twenty-five-year-old who had too much pride to apply for unemployment benefits.

Watkins skimmed the page and looked up with a frown. “Hire a forensic video expert?”

“They’ve doctored that surveillance video, I know it. An expert can prove it.”

“Maybe. For a fee. A hefty fee.”

“Yes, you need to petition the court for expert funding.” I handed him a motion I’d already drafted to that effect.

He skimmed those pages. “This is a real long shot.”

“No harm in asking. And no skin off your back, since I’ve done all the work.”

He scowled in a way that made me suspect I was his least favorite client. I didn’t care. I wasn’t out to make friends. Only to influence people. Specifically, I hoped to influence the assigned prosecutor, an ADA named Max Harper. Watkins was right that I didn’t want to go to trial. I was counting on the charges being dropped long before that. I was dropping breadcrumbs and counting on Harper to follow them.

Watkins was still running down the assignment list. “A deposition of your brother,” he said, wheezing with the effort of speech. “In Leavenworth. Kansas.”

“He’ll testify that he never sold or gave me a gun.”

“Of course he will. Nobody would expect otherwise. Of your brother or a convicted felon.” He took his pen and drew a line through that task. “A trip to Kansas? That is skin off my back.”

My mouth tightened, but I moved on to the next item on my list: the release of my briefcase from evidence.

His brow furrowed in deep fleshy folds. “How come? What’s in it?”

“Confidential company documents.”

“Saying what?”

“Sorry. Privileged.”

“You don’t even work for that company anymore.”

I shrugged.

“Besides, you’ll get your briefcase back at the end of the case.”

“I want you to file a motion now.”

“Why?”

“To get their attention.”