“Tommy, this is Gideon Page,” I announce.

“I assume Connie’s told you I’ve been retained to represent Class Bledsoe.”

There is silence on the other end while he absorbs the fact that he is getting a phone call from the attorney who represents his father’s alleged murderer. Finally, he says, “She called me this morning.”

I tell him that I am genuinely sorry that his father has been killed.

“I had nothing but the profoundest respect for him. All of you worked so hard and did so well that I drew inspiration just knowing you. I can remember how persistent you were when we used to play tennis. You were Michael Chang before there even was one.”

“Why are you calling me, Gideon?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t you be dealing with the prosecuting attorney?”

I watch as a gorgeous blonde flits all over the national weather map.

What he wants to say, but is too polite, is, if you have such admiration for us, why are you taking the case of the man who murdered my father?

“I am,” I say.

“But I know you want the right person to be convicted of your father’s murder. If my client did it, the jury should convict him, but he swears he was set up, and I think that’s a real possibility.” “Why?” Tommy asks, his voice unyielding.

“My father’s blood was on his knife. He has no alibi, I’ve heard he wouldn’t take a polygraph test.”

“I’m just starting to investigate this. Tommy,” I say, watching the blonde draw squiggles over the Rockies, “but it’s obvious that Paul could have hired any number of people in that plant to murder your father and pin it on Bledsoe, who seems like a decent man but probably isn’t the brightest guy down there.”

“So at least you’re convinced Paul Taylor was behind this,” Tommy says, his voice fading in and out, “because he thought he could buy the plant for a fraction of its worth.”