The lawyer from New York had arrived. He was gray-haired Solomon Geberth. A member of the New York, Massachusetts and D.C. bars, he had been admitted to the jurisdiction of North Carolina pro hac vice—for the single case of People v. Sachs. Curiously, with his smooth, handsome face and mannerisms even smoother he seemed far more a genteel Southern lawyer out of a John Grisham novel than a bulldog of a Manhattan litigator. The man’s trim hair glistened with spray and his Italian suit successfully resisted wrinkles even in Tanner’s Corner’s astonishing humidity.

Lincoln Rhyme sat between Sachs and her lawyer. She rested her hand on the armrest of his injured wheelchair.

“They brought in a special prosecutor from Raleigh,” Geberth was explaining. “With the sheriff and the coroner on the take I don’t think they quite trust McGuire. Anyway he’s looked over the evidence and decided to dismiss the charges against Garrett.”

Sachs stirred at this. “He did?”

Geberth said, “Garrett admitted hitting the boy, Billy, and thought he killed him. But Lincoln was right. It was Bell who killed the boy. And even if they brought him up on assault charges Garrett was clearly acting in self-defense. That other deputy, Ed Schaeffer? His death’s been ruled accidental.”

“What about kidnapping Lydia Johansson?” Rhyme asked.

“When she realized that Garrett had never intended to hurt her she decided to drop the charges. Mary Beth did the same. Her mother wanted to go ahead with the complaint but you should’ve heard that girl talk to the woman. Some fur flew during that conversation, I’ll tell you.”

“So he’s free? Garrett?” Sachs asked, eyes on the floor.

“They’re letting him out in a few minutes,” Geberth told her. Then: “Okay, here’s the laundry, Amelia: the prosecutor’s position is that even if Garrett turned out not to be a felon, you aided in the escape of a prisoner who’d been arrested on the basis of probable cause and you killed an officer during the commission of that crime. The prosecutor’s going for first-degree murder and throwing in the standard lesser-included offenses: both manslaughter counts—voluntary and involuntary—and reckless homicide and criminally negligent homicide.”

“First degree?” Rhyme snapped. “It wasn’t premeditated; it was an accident! For Christ’s sake.”

“Which is what I’m going to try to show at trial,” Geberth said. “That the other deputy, the one who grabbed you, was a partial proximate cause of the shooting. But I guarantee they’ll get the reckless homicide conviction. On the facts there’s no doubt about that.”

“What’s the chance of acquittal?” Rhyme asked.

“Bad. Ten, fifteen percent at best. I’m sorry, but I have to recommend you take a plea.”

She felt this like a blow to her chest. Her eyes closed and when she exhaled it was as if her soul had fled from her body.

“Jesus,” Rhyme muttered.