The criminal justice system was a farce. Millions of lawyers fought in thousands of courtrooms, and the result was almost always the same. Criminals walked free and victims were hurt all over again.

Henry Spencer had been fighting this realization for all the years he’d been a member of the Santa Barbara Police Department. He’d had to, because if he had ever acknowledged it, he’d never have been able to put on his blues in the morning.

But as of today, there was no longer any way to deny the truth. The court had jammed his face in it as surely as if he were a puppy that had left a mess on the living room carpet.

Six months Henry had been tracking a bunko crew. Six months he had interviewed the little old ladies whose life savings had been scammed away by these sleazebags. Finally he’d been allowed to set up a sting and the creeps walked right into it-caught on tape, caught with the cash, caught with no doubt.

Except to the United States criminal justice system, that was. For them, there was plenty of doubt. Reasonable doubt, they called it, but it was only reasonable if you could bring yourself to believe that the crooks accidentally switched a bag full of scrap paper for the one holding their victim’s life savings, and then accidentally used her money to buy first-class tickets to Antigua.

Henry slammed through his front door and kicked it shut behind him. He should be at the station right now, finalizing the paperwork on a burglary case that was going to arraignment tomorrow, but what was the point? Even if he did everything perfectly, the defense lawyer would argue that the defendant thought he was entering his own house, and that he only crowbarred open a second-story window because he’d misplaced his keys. And the idiot prosecutor would be unable to come up with a way to argue the point.