Chapter One
Tulsa, Oklahoma
As Ben Kincaid peered at his client through the acrylic
screen, he was startled by how appealing, how downright
cute she still looked. Usually, the first few weeks behind
bars took a terrible toll on first-time inmates. The lack
of sunlight, the coarseness of the company, the absence of
hair care and beauty products, the low-watt institutional
lighting, the inevitable depression-all conspired to make
the newly incarcerated appear as if they had emerged from
the ninth circle of hell.
But not Candy Warren. Somehow Candy had managed to retain
her fresh-faced charm. When her father first introduced
her to Ben, he had compared his daughter to Lizzie McGuire-
perky, effervescent, goofy but lovable. Two weeks in the
slammer and a switch from Gap jeans to TCPD orange
coveralls hadn't changed any of that. She was still
adorable. She even had her hair up in pigtails.
"So you've talked to my daddy?" she asked, speaking into
the telephone receiver that allowed them to communicate.
"Yes," Ben answered. "He's worried about you, of course.
But I assured him we would do everything we could. And I
got him the present you wanted to send. The Hilary Duff
poster."
"Oh, that's wonderful." Ben loved the way her nose
crinkled when she laughed. "Can you believe it? The man is
in his sixties, and he's crazy about this girl who's
barely a teenager. Isn't that wild?"
Ben could think of a different word for it, but never mind
that. Always refreshing to have a client who still cared
about her parents. "I have some good news for you. To my
utter surprise, DA Canelli has made an offer."
"An offer?" She lifted her chin, giving those pigtails an
endearing bounce. "What kind of offer?"
"A plea bargain. A chance to avoid trial."
"Assuming I plead guilty."
"To a lesser charge. Yes."
Candy kneaded her hands. Ben noticed that her fingernails
were painted electric pink. "But what will my daddy say?"
"What will he say if this goes to trial?"
"Aren't I entitled to my day in court?"
"Yes. But that day is fraught with risk. Canelli is
offering you a sure thing."
She sat up straight, throwing her shoulders back. "I can't
do it. I can't take the easy way out. I owe that much to
my daddy. And while we're talking about this, Ben, I want
you to do something about those newspapers."
Ben didn't follow. "Which newspapers?"
"All of them. Have you read the articles they've been
printing?" Creases flanked the bridge of her nose. "File
some kind of lawsuit against them."
"On what grounds?"
"What grounds?" she said with great indignity. "They've
been saying horrible things about me. They're libeling my
reputation! Destroying my good name!"
Ben shook his head. "Candy ... you're-"
"Ben, don't. You know I have labeling issues."
"Nonetheless-"
"Ben, I don't want to hear-"
"Candy ..." Ben cleared his throat. "You're a hit man."
She gave him a stern look. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry. Hit person."
"Better." Her face hardened; the adorable factor vanished.
In the space of a second, she went from Lizzie McGuire to
Lizzie Borden. "Now, what are you going to do about those
goddamn newspapers?"
Ben drew in his breath. "Nothing. A libel suit would be
frivolous, given the circumstances, detrimental to your
criminal case, and so utterly stupid that if you really
want to do it, you're going to have to find yourself
another lawyer."
She glared back at him with eyes like Uzis. "Then what do
you suggest?"
"I suggest you take the DA's deal." He hung the phone
receiver back in its cradle. "Be seeing you, Candy."
Christina McCall sailed through the front doors of her law
office with an air of insouciance, bouncing with each
step, whistling as she walked. Jones, the office manager
and part-time oracle, did his best to interpret the signs.
He could tell she was in a merry mood, not only from the
whistling, but also because she was dressed less like an
attorney and more like, well, Christina. She was wearing a
short, pleated skirt, knee-high boots, and a clinging
sweater ornamented with irregular patches of fake fur.
"I'm guessing you didn't get that outfit at Saks," Jones
commented.
"Dear Jones," she said smiling, "Don't you know? This is
all the rage amongst the jeunesse doree."
Jones didn't know what that meant and wasn't interested
enough to ask. "Is there a reason why we're whistling this
morning?"
Christina beamed. "Because it gives me a happy."
"Uh-huh. May I assume from this unsuppressed display of
jocularity that you must've beaten Ben at Scrabble last
night?"
She stopped at his desk in the lobby and snatched the pink
message slips from her spindle. "Jones, Jones-you're so
passe. We're long past the Scrabble stage."
"'Zat a fact," he said dubiously. "Might I have the
temerity to suggest the possibility that he actually ...
kissed you good night?"
"Jones, Jones, Jones!" She leaned across his desk, still
grinning. "You are such a busybody."
"I'm just trying to stay up-to-date on this putative
romance."
"And I'd love to continue this delightful raillery, but-"
"Look, I'm trying to run an office," Jones said, raising
his chin. "It's my job to know if anything insalubrious to
the firm is developing. So I'm naturally concerned when
the firm's two attorneys make the incredibly boneheaded
decision to start dating each other. But if you don't want
to tell me anything, fine. I don't care."
A few seconds of silence passed. Christina stared at him.
Jones drummed his fingers.
"All right, so I do care. Don't make me grovel. Tell me
already."
Christina fluttered her eyelashes. "Dear sweet Jones.
Don't work yourself into a swivet. I'll tell all. Ben and
I are so past the good night kiss stage." She gave him a
pronounced wink. "Way way past. What a libido that man
has."
"Really. I thought Ben was more glibido."
"Huh?"
"All talk and no action."
"Well, you are ... totally wrong."
"Glad to hear it. I guess." As Christina bounced toward
her office, he added, "But I notice there's no ring on
your finger."
Her neck stiffened first; the rest of her body soon
followed. She slowly pivoted on one heel. "That ...
doesn't mean ... anything. We haven't been dating all that
long."
"Oh? Seems to me it's been ..."
"Just a little over a year." She paused. "With, like, ten
years of foreplay. Look, he's a typical nineties male.
Afraid of commitment."
"Wake up and smell the calendar, Chris. The nineties were
over a long time ago. Your boy is stalling."
"He isn't stalling. He's just ... Ben." Her fingers
fluttered through the air. "You know how hard he was hit
by that Ellen mess, how she betrayed him. That's how he
sees it, anyway. And that business with Belinda Hamilton
didn't help any, either."
"And Keri Kilcannon."
"Ugh." Christina's face twisted into a grimace. "Did you
have to bring her up?" She sighed. "I keep telling myself
this so-called romance isn't hopeless, that eventually
we'll take the next step. But how long can I wait for this
man to come to his senses?"
"Hearing that old biological clock ticking?"
"Yeah. The one that tells me I probably won't live past
one hundred and ten. And that may not be long enough."
"I feel for you. Truly."
"What would you know about it? You and Paula fell in love
right off the bat."
"We didn't get married right off the bat." Jones's eyes
twinkled. "But I knew it was going to happen. Knew the
first moment I laid eyes on her."
"And you've been happily married ever since. How did you
know? How could you be sure? Give me a test."
"That's easy enough. Has he ever told you he loves you?"
She frowned, then stomped across the lobby to her office.
Jones leaned back in his chair and closed his
eyes. "That's what I thought."
Ben crept into the lobby, carefully opening and releasing
the door so the automatic chime would not sound. When was
he going to have that private-access elevator to his
office installed? Answer: probably sometime after he
actually made some money, a goal that perpetually eluded
him. And it wasn't because of his profligate ways, either.
In all his years as a lawyer, he'd tried dozens of cases,
mostly with some degree of success, settled a multimillion-
dollar tort case, written two books, inherited a
boardinghouse, and rarely spent a dime on himself. But he
still only barely managed to keep the firm afloat. And for
the most part, it was his own fault. And he knew it.
Which was why he was tiptoeing past his office manager's
desk, hoping Jones kept his attention fixed on his
computer screen. He felt certain that Candy Warren would
take the DA's offer. He also felt certain that as soon as
her father found out about it, he would refuse to pay Ben
a dime, which would make her the third no-pay in a month.
The only check he remembered seeing recently had come from
the government for a court-appointed representation, and
that hadn't amounted to enough to take his staff to the
Golden Arches for a burger and fries. No, he definitely
didn't need to have a confrontation with Jones this early
in the morning.
As he turned stealthily down the corridor to the private
offices, he saw that Christina was already in. His spirits
got an instantaneous lift, as they always did when he saw
her. He almost said hello-then thought better of it and
returned to stealth mode. They'd had a wonderful time
together the night before, absolutely blissful: takeout
from Right Wing, a new episode of Says You! on the radio,
and some extremely gratifying snuggling. But when the
evening came to an end, and they stood at the door
together, and he'd given her one last goodbye kiss about
as many times as was possible without it becoming
ridiculous, she paused, held him at arm's length, and
waited.
He knew what she was waiting for. And the pathetic thing
was, he wanted to comply. But he couldn't make himself do
it. No matter how hard he tried. So he bumbled something
inane about what a "swell girl" she was, and she left.
Yes, he was definitely tiptoeing past her door, too.
He slid into his desk chair and thumbed through the mail
Jones had left. Bills, bills, and more bills. A possible
case in Creek County against a crop-dusting school. A
small-time Internet florist that wanted to sue its
fulfillment service. Nothing remotely interesting. Nothing
likely to make him rich overnight. And nothing that was
ever going to help him work up the nerve to do right by-
"Christina!" He sat upright, startled by her sudden
appearance. "What-"
She marched past his desk, grabbed him by the shoulders,
raised him to his feet, and planted a big wet one right on
his lips.
"Ub-dub-what-"
"Yes, yes, I know your rules. No smoochies in the
workplace. But today I think you've earned an exception. I
just got word from the courthouse. Father Beale is going
to be released!"
"You're kidding!"
"You know I wouldn't joke about something like that. He's
been wrongfully incarcerated for far too long. It's an
embarrassment to the entire state."
"So our appeal finally worked."
"Appeal, schmiel. It was your book that did it." Not long
after he had tried Father Beale's case-and lost-Ben began
writing his second nonfiction book. It had finally been
published about a month before, and the sales had been
considerably better than those for his first book-which
meant they were at least in two-digit numbers. Bad Faith
had also generated a fair amount of media attention,
especially in legal circles.
"The governor, archconservative that he is, couldn't help
but get involved after you turned up the heat, Ben. People
were calling for Father Beale's release all over the state-
heck, all over the nation. Greta van Susteren devoted an
entire hour to the case, for Pete's sake. Make no mistake,
Ben-this had nothing to do with any judge, jury, or legal
argument. You made this happen."
"Well ... I'm glad he's getting out, anyway." Which was
putting it mildly. Father Beale had been Ben's childhood
priest, a man he loved dearly for all his faults. Losing
his case had been a devastating blow. "I want to be there
when he's released."
"I knew you would. I've made all the arrangements."
"Great. That's just ... great." Ben had been trying to
avoid her eyes, but something about Christina made that
impossible. Whether he wanted to or not, his gaze returned
to her long strawberry-blond hair, her freckled nose. She
was half a foot shorter than he was, and yet everything
she did, everything she said exuded confidence and
fortitude. "Look ...," he stuttered, "about last
night ..."
Her eyes turned up. "Yes?"
"I just-I just wanted you to know that-that-"
"Yes?"
Ben felt beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his
face. "That you were totally robbed by that Says You! fake
definition round. I mean, who on earth would know that
babbing was some kind of eel fishing? Arnie has a way of
bluffing that takes everyone in. And-and you shouldn't
feel bad about missing that one."
Her head moved slowly up and down. "Thanks, Ben.
Appreciate that."
A large crew-cut head bobbed into the office. "Hey, you
guys got the TV on?"
It was Loving, their investigator. A huge man, built like
a storage freezer, but at heart as soft as a new pair of
Hush Puppies.
"No," Ben answered. "Why? Oprah going to help you find
fulfillment by buying some book?"
"Nah. Somethin' really excitin'. On C-SPAN."
Something exciting on C-SPAN? Ben thought. That'll be the
day. "What about?"
"Come see for yourself. It's that Senator Glancy guy."
"Glancy?" Christina turned her head. "Don't you know him,
Ben?"
He nodded. "Went to law school with him."
"Friends?"
He shrugged. "His family knew my family. Titans of Nichols
Hills, that sort of thing. But no, he and I were never
particularly close. My mother is constantly comparing us,
throwing his success in my face."
"Why? Because he was a successful and fabulously wealthy
oil magnate and then got elected to the Senate, and you're
a-a-"
Ben waited. "Ye-es?"
"-a ... increasingly prominent attorney. Let's go see what
Loving is talking about." She did a quick about-face and
headed out of the office.
Ben almost smiled. Smoothly done, Christina. Very smooth
indeed.
Ben and Christina stared at the small television set in
the office lobby, their lips parted. Even in black and
white, it was difficult to believe. Or stomach.
"And you say they've been running this all morning?"
"Oh yeah," Loving replied. "You know how these news guys
are.