Feeling a little crass, I shift my pad an inch to the left.

“I’m a Catholic,” I mumble. Actually, this is bull shit. I’ve hardly darkened the door of a church since the Mass I was made to attend the morning I graduated from Subiaco Academy, a Catholic parochial school an hour from Fort Smith in the western part of the state.

Rosa’s death hasn’t helped me answer any questions I have about religion. All the preaching in the world can’t explain why a woman who had so much life in her had to die in agony before her daughter was even out of junior high school.

Bracken places his hands together as if we are all one happy family and asks, “Are you sure you have the time to do this case?”

I hear anxiety in his voice. I wonder how much he has done to prepare. Bracken has the reputation of being a control freak. One story has it that on occasion he bribes the Blackwell County courthouse custodian to keep the temperature five degrees cooler than normal during a trial. There won’t be any doubt about who will be the boss. I look down at my calendar for the rest of March. An ugly custody trial, a few appointments for new clients, a couple of DWI’s, and three uncontested divorces. Pretty unspectacular.

“I’ve got a few things,” I admit, “but only one case that will chew up a whole day.” As with almost every lawyer I know in solo practice who hasn’t been at it a good while, it’s either feast or famine.

“What’s the story?” I add quickly, before he changes his mind.

Bracken reaches inside his coat for his wallet, revealing a pink shirt and a tie that looks like a slightly surreal sunflower field. I wonder what kind of cancer he has. He hasn’t even cleared his throat.

“Damn it to hell, that’s a good question,” he says irritably as he peels off four five-hundred-dollar bills.

“I’ve hardly gotten a word out of our client. It’s a weird case, Page. Every time I try to talk to Leigh, she clams up. Usually, I can’t get a defendant to shut up they give me so much garbage I can’t get her to talk. Frankly, I don’t get it.”