THERE WAS STILL a general sense that everything was going wrong. It was a strange feeling—shared not only by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, but by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as well—and it seemed to be there all the time, like ominous background music to some unsettling drama; always playing, filled with foreboding. Mma Ramotswe tried to get things in perspective, tried to project her usual optimism, and to an extent she succeeded—only to find that her efforts at cheering up herself and others would weaken after a while and the memory would return of the sheer bleakness of both Mma Potokwane’s and Fanwell’s positions: unemployment in Mma Potokwane’s case, and the destruction of a world that goes with it, and criminal charges in Fanwell’s, and all that such proceedings entail—although the less one thought about the consequences of that the better.

“I hear the food in prison is not too bad,” remarked Charlie over tea one morning. Fanwell was not present, having been sent by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to collect a part from the spares depot. “I have heard that from a friend who was sent to prison for hitting somebody too hard.”

Mma Ramotswe, Mma Makutsi, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni all looked at Charlie balefully.

“You should not talk about such things,” scolded Mma Makutsi. “Fanwell will not go to prison.”

“He might,” said Charlie. “I’m only talking about what could happen. What’s wrong with that?”

“Sometimes it’s better not to think about bad things that are not definitely going to happen,” Mma Ramotswe said mildly.

Mma Makutsi looked cross. “And you said that this friend of yours hit somebody too hard. So that means that you can hit people just the right amount? Not too soft but not too hard?”

Charlie defended himself. “I did not say that. I did not say that you could hit people. All I said is that he hit somebody too hard.”

Mma Ramotswe sought to end the argument. Mma Makutsi and Charlie rubbed each other up the wrong way even at the best of times; when there was tension in the air, as there was now, it was considerably worse. “I think that we should not talk about prison,” she said. “Nor about hitting people. We all know that Fanwell is innocent. What we must do now is hope that the lawyer will do a good job and make sure that the magistrate sees that.”

Charlie stared down into his tea. “That is a very useless lawyer, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “You should not say that, Charlie.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “You don’t know anything about it.”

Charlie looked up. “But I do, Mma. He is the lawyer who defended my friend who hit somebody too … who hit somebody.”