“I know who he is. I’m old, not stupid. Who are you? Are you family?”

Christine cringed. She was family, in a way. “I’m a freelance journalist and—”

“Lord, deliver me. Journalists are bad enough. Freelance means you couldn’t get hired by anybody.”

Christine and Lauren exchanged looks.

Griff said, “I heard Jeffcoat had a PD.”

“PD?” Christine didn’t know what that meant. To her, PD meant Professional Development, or homework for teachers.

“Public Defender.”

“Yes, but he wants a private lawyer. Would you represent him?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to retire. My daughter says if I do, I’d make everybody miserable. But I already make everybody miserable. So.”

Christine wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, please don’t retire, because we need a lawyer.”

Griff sighed heavily. “I don’t do this over the phone. Come in Monday morning.”

“Can I come in now? I’m only available for the weekend. I see that your office is on Market Street. We’re in town, near the courthouse.”

“Then get here before I change my mind.”

“See you in five—” Christine said, but he had already hung up.

Five minutes later, Christine and Lauren were sitting in an office that was as different from Gary Leonardo’s as a mousehole from a lion’s den. The law firm of F.X. Griffith, Esquire, was a single room in the back of the first floor of a converted row house, which Griff evidently rented from a large estates practice; the office was a medium-sized rectangle with a single window in the back wall, containing brown bookshelves, a gray file cabinet, a plain wooden desk with an old desktop computer, and two maroon leather chairs opposite the desk, in which Christine and Lauren sat. The bookshelves held faded photographs of grinning family members, and the lawbooks were leather-bound, their spines broken and their tops feathered. The framed diplomas and court admission certificates on the wall dated from the 1970s.

“So, fill me in.” Griff narrowed his eyes, which were gray-blue and cloudy at the edges behind old-fashioned tortoiseshell glasses. His thick, chalk-white hair shot straight up from both sides of his part, and he had unruly eyebrows to match. He had to be seventy-five years old, given the number of age spots on his temples, the depth of his crow’s-feet, and the fissures etched into his face, bracketing his flattish lips. Still, he had sunburned cheeks and a small red nose, which made him look like an outdoorsy Methuselah.

Christine answered, “We just met with Zachary, and he asked us to find him a private lawyer.”

“He too good for a public defender?” Griff wore a dingy white polo shirt with baggy khaki pants, and when he leaned forward on his desk, his arms were covered with spidery white hair.

“I guess he wants somebody better.”

Griff frowned. “Public defenders are good. I started my career there.”

Christine wondered when but didn’t ask. “Well, he wants a private lawyer.”

“What he should want is a local lawyer.” Griff leaned over the desk, picking up a dirty rubber band. “Somebody who lives in Chester County. Knows the judges and the bar. Knows how to pick a jury, what appeals to them and what doesn’t. Knows how to reach them, speaks their language. Has the same accent.”

Christine noted that Griff had a farm-y accent. “So you’ll do it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Christine felt nonplussed. “Okay, can you tell me about yourself? How many murder cases have you handled?”

Griff frowned in thought. “Can’t tell you. Lost count.”

“Can you ballpark it?” Christine was trying to evaluate him as a lawyer.

“Handled up to thirty felonies a year in my salad days. Practiced criminal law for fifty years. You do the math.”

Christine got the gist. “How many cases did you win?”

“Nobody keeps count, nobody worth knowing.” Griff held up a thick finger. “Wait. Four.”

“You won only four cases?” Christine glanced at Lauren, worriedly.

Griff shook his head. “No. Four death-penalty cases. That’s all anybody keeps track of. Got life without parole for all four. That’s four victories.” Griff nodded, satisfied with himself. “Two of my guys are at Graterford. I wouldn’t recommend you say hello.”

Christine shuddered. “Do you have staff to help you on this case?”

“Used to. These days I’m a one-man band.”

“Can you handle this case on your own?”

“Jeffcoat’s got no money for staff, does he? He’s not a rich kid, is he?”

“No. But do you have a paralegal or a secretary?” Christine hadn’t even seen a receptionist’s desk

“I know how to answer a phone. See?” Griff reached for his beige telephone and held up the clunky receiver, then hung it up again.

“You have a cell phone, don’t you?”

“No. No email, either. The government taps our phones and email. NSA admits as much. You know what NSA stands for? No Such Agency.” Griff permitted himself a crooked smile, showing yellowing teeth. “You ask me, politicians are the real criminals. Wholesale violations of the Fourth Amendment, every day. Unreasonable searches and seizures. Dragnetting of information, which is exactly what our forefathers warned against. Why the citizenry consents to it, I don’t know. Not me. I don’t consent.”

“So how do you work?” Christine asked.

“I use the computer for word processing. I type my own briefs and motions. I don’t e-file. I wouldn’t have the website, but my grandson made it for me.”

“Do you have Internet?” Christine had to draw the line. She would accept a Luddite, not a crackpot.

“No. Too easy to hack into. I’ve been saying it for years, but you see it on TV now. Everybody getting hacked into.” Griff pointed to the door. “If you don’t like it, do me a favor. Go. Let me retire. I was about to. Also my bunions hurt. I have two now. My feet are tripods.”

Christine didn’t think he was kidding.

“Now, to business. Can Jeffcoat pay? Freedom isn’t free. My retainer is low because I have no overhead. $5,000. He’ll pay fifteen grand with someone else. Twenty-five in Philly.”