residents of Bear Creek, married four years ago. They have no children yet. Class had been working at the plant for five years. He had liked Willie, although he didn’t pay much. She adds dryly that eastern Arkansas was hardly union territory.

I think I’m going to like Lattice. She has convinced herself that her husband is innocent, and that alone is refreshing. My last client charged with murder had a wife who was itching to testify that she had no doubt her husband was guilty. We pleaded the case out to manslaughter. I look down at my calendar and tell her I can get over there this afternoon. If I leave after lunch, I can be at the jail by a little after three. Not that I’m going to be able to get Bledsoe out of jail. Unless he has a very rich uncle his wife hasn’t told me about, he isn’t going to be able to make bond even if I could persuade the judge to grant it. But at least I can visit with him and see if I want to change my mind about handling his case.

I get Lattice’s address and phone number. She remembers to tell me that Class is incarcerated at the new state-run detention facility near Brickeys, about thirteen miles outside of Bear Creek, and that I will need to call ahead in order to see him. My ten o’clock appointment, a rare probate case, is waiting for me, and I walk Lattice to the elevators, realizing I may be spending a lot of time in my old home town. I’m not at all sure how I feel about that.

At 11:30 I get the number from information and call the jail to set up my meeting and then leave a message for my girlfriend, Amy, not to wait for dinner, when my friend Dan walks stiffly into my office holding his side. I haven’t seen him since he won and took an all-expense-paid ski trip to Crested Butte, Colorado.

“How was it?” I ask, glad to see him. Dan has been my best friend since I got an office here. He is a mess, but he makes me laugh, and that one quality covers up a multitude of sins.