The elevator opens and I plunge into the crowded corridor. Don’t like courthouses. Never have. I prefer university hallways with students chattering amiably or hurrying to appointments. Here, frazzled people stand around looking worried and lost, waiting for their fates to be decided.

The attorneys stand out with their professional garb and matter-of-fact attitudes. One couple frowns as they listen to an old attorney whose jacket bags from sloping, tired shoulders that seem weighted down from dealing with too many people, too many problems. Nearby, two well-groomed businessmen hang on the words of a confident young attorney in a trendy suit.

What with my Scottish tweed jacket, I probably could be mistaken for an attorney, but instead here I am, joining the worried and feeling quite lost. As if my work weren’t complicated enough, now I’m dealing with this damned mess. But there’s only one person I can think of to take this on—and that we can trust.

I hurry down the corridor, looking for her, but no luck. She must still be in court—room number 44, her legal assistant said. I find it and peer through the door’s small glass window. The spectator section is empty, but a hearing is going on. Ah, there she is. I slip in quietly and take a seat at the back. An attorney in an expensive Italian suit stands at the front of the court, addressing the judge. Sporting a suntan that speaks more to hours in the Tuscan sun than overcast Seattle, the attorney hammers his case with all the fervor of a Cesare Borgia.

When the other attorney turns to her client, I catch a glimpse of her face—the large, dark eyes and graceful nose turned up slightly at the tip. It’s been three years since I’ve seen Kathryn. A pang of guilt strikes me. Swallowing hard, I shove the painful memories aside.

Punching the air for emphasis, Cesare accuses Kathryn’s client of abandoning her two daughters last Friday and making no attempt to contact her husband or see the children. Despite the dramatics, the judge looks bored. Cesare concludes that the wife is unfit, and since she has no means of support, her request for custody should be denied. The balding husband approvingly grins at his attorney’s attack.

When Kathryn stands to address the judge, I get my first good look. Still wears skirts with matching jackets. Kathryn never did dress informally. Anne always kidded her about that. I lean forward, don’t want to miss a word.

“It’s true Mrs. Stratton left her home in the middle of the night last Friday,” she begins. “It’s also true she did not take her children and made no attempt to contact them.”

What’s she doing? Kathryn just conceded the main points in the husband’s case. But then she explains that her client fled in fear of her life through the bathroom window onto the second-floor roof. Then she walked to the highway and flagged down a truck that took her to the nearest emergency room, where doctors treated her for two cracked ribs and numerous bruises and cuts—all from a beating at the hands of her husband.

A snort of denial erupts from the husband. In a hushed voice, Cesare advises him to control himself. Kathryn requests that the medical records be admitted into evidence.

“Objection!” Cesare jumps to his feet. “We don’t know that the injuries were at the hands of my client. These could have been sustained in a fall from the roof or even at the hands of some other person. Apparently she hitchhiked. Maybe the injuries were from a tussle with the truck driver.”

“Response, Ms. Copeland?” the judge asks Kathryn.

“Mr. Stratton’s attorney has conceded my client left the house through a second floor window. Why would she climb onto a roof and risk falling and breaking her leg or worse? Only because she’d already been beaten. She sought refuge in the bathroom but realized the door wouldn’t stop her attacker, so she did the only thing she could—escaped onto the roof. The medical records specifically note she was not under the influence of alcohol or drugs.” Kathryn glances sympathetically at her client and adds, “Neither her husband nor his attorney has alleged my client was in the habit of leaving her family and going off alone at night. All the facts point to her having fled after being beaten by one person—Mr. Stratton.”

“Objection overruled,” the judge announces. “The exhibits are admitted.” The husband glares at Kathryn through narrowed, threatening eyes.

Kathryn continues her factual onslaught, detailing the physical abuse which had increased over the past months as the husband’s business lost more money due to the depression plaguing the country. She points out that the wife’s fleeing to protect herself and being absent for three days do not constitute abandonment of the children. Methodically, Kathryn describes her client’s fears not only for her safety, but also the safety of her daughters. She presents her case with the same persuasiveness and clarity that won every debate at the university against anyone foolish enough to take her on.

The husband grumbles angrily, but Cesare warns him to hold his tongue. After more heated, gut-wrenching debate between the attorneys, the judge grants all the temporary orders. Then he pointedly directs Stratton to remove his personal belongings from the family home under the supervision of a police officer. Everyone stands as the judge leaves the bench. Stratton walks past with his attorney, and I get an earful of foul language. Clearly he’s used to getting his way.

Then the young wife breaks down crying. With a reassuring voice, Kathryn patiently answers all her client’s questions. When the woman leaves, Kathryn’s shoulders relax as she opens her briefcase and puts away her file and old model laptop. I noticed that the other attorney had a Wheaton Qrystal quantum computer—and the most expensive model at that. Kathryn evidently doesn’t get the pricey fees from her clients. But then, she left the corporate world a few years ago.

Kathryn turns around and spots me. “Collin, what are you doing, lurking there?” She walks toward me, her brilliant smile making me wince. So much like Anne’s. “I thought we were meeting at my office.”

“Could no’ resist seeing you in action.” I give her a big hug. “To tell the truth, your hearing was running late, so I came here t’ pick you up for dinner.”

“Wonderful to see you again. How long have you been here?”

“Snuck in as the other attorney was launching his attack. I enjoyed watching you give him a good drubbin’.”

“In his defense, his client probably didn’t disclose a lot. I doubt the attorney knew about the beating or the medical reports.” She grins. “It helps to have the facts.”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just curious about wha’ it takes to win a case.”

“Well, getting all the facts isn’t as easy as it sounds. The client may not want to admit or disclose everything—may not even be aware of all the facts. So gathering evidence includes digging into any potentially useful information and tracking down and questioning witnesses.”

“So that’s all there is to it, then?” I query.

“No, thoroughly researching all the legal angles is crucial. And having a fair judge or jury plays no small part. Fortunately, the law provides attorneys with a useful tool—we can file a motion to disqualify judges who are biased.”

“Tha’ doesn’t sound like a politically correct thing to do.” I’ve had my own run-ins with the political types at the university.

“No, it’s not.” She chuckles. “But I don’t hesitate to file a motion to remove a judge when needed. So, thorough preparation of the facts and law as well as an impartial judge are usually a successful combination.”

“From my understanding, ‘usually’ is not the correct word when applied to you. Based on wha’ I hear, it’s more like ‘always.’ You win just about every case, don’t you?”

“How did you come up with that information?” She regards me suspiciously. “And why would it matter to you?”

“T’be honest, I’m in need of a good attorney.”

“What did you do? Flunk someone who’s got a lord in front of his name?”

“Oh, it isn’t about me.” She’s joking, but she’s got a point. When I was a professor at Oxford, I didn’t go off half-cocked. “However, I do know a person who may be accused o’ things.”

“Things? What things?”

“Uh, murder—mostly.” I flinch. So much for saving that for later.

She stares at me long and hard before replying. “Murder? Sorry, I don’t take criminal defense cases. My practice is mostly civil litigation and cases involving domestic violence and child abuse.”

“We can discuss this later.” I glance around the room, uneasy. “We have t’be cautious.”

“What’s this about?” Kathryn takes a step back. “Is that the reason you’re here? Why you called to take me out to dinner?”

“Shall we go then?” I punt. “We’re going t’be late.”

“So you made dinner reservations?”

“O’ course. You love French food, right? I got us a table at Le Bouc.” I grin and take her briefcase, escorting her into the corridor. It’s after five and the swarms of sullen people are gone. As we enter the elevator, I comment offhandedly, “We’re going to a meeting first if you don’t mind. We’ll have dinner after.”

“Meeting? What’s the meeting for?” She doesn’t hide her irritation.

I shrug apologetically. “It’s indirectly involved wi’ the case I mentioned.” When the doors open, I guide her toward the public parking lot. “Shall we take my car?”

Kathryn halts abruptly. “Why can’t I follow you in mine? Where are we going?”

There’s no way I can tell her here. It’s too open. Anybody could be tracking me, listening in. I put on a smile. “Will ya trust me? I thought maybe you could help me out a bit.” I don’t dare give her any more information. She’d likely bolt right now. “For old time’s sake?”

She searches my face for several tense seconds. “I’m not happy about this being sprung on me.” Testy, she finally says, “All right.”

So far, so good, I’m thinking as we head to my car. When I open the car door for her, she gives me a strange look. What now? As I’m driving to the exit of the garage, she seems to be studying the electronic monitors on the dashboard.

“This isn’t a hybrid, is it? It’s a fully electric car,” she says, surprised.

“That it is.”

“I’ve never been in one. Wouldn’t have thought this was within the salary of a professor.”

“Well, true. This is provided by my employer. All o’ his vehicles are electric.”

“Really? You mean he can afford to pay the extra taxes for using electric cars? Who is this employer? Is he involved somehow with this ‘meeting’?”

“Actually, he is.”

“So what is his name?”

“You’ll know tha’ soon enough.”

She shakes her head and looks away.

We head toward I-5, but the motorbikes and pedicabs clogging the hazy, grey streets of Seattle slow us down. As we approach an intersection, police sirens begin to blare, so I stop the car. An old van comes speeding down the street, but slams on its brakes at a traffic gridlock. Two men get out and race into the alleyway, followed by a hunter police drone hovering closely overhead. Police cars screech to a halt next to the van. We watch as several policemen give chase while one stays back and uses a crowbar to pry open the van’s back doors. When they fly open, a cargo of barrels comes into sight.

“What do you think it is?” Kathryn asks. “Water?”

“Yeah, tha’ would be my guess. Probably water runners, wha’ with half the country dealing with drought and the other half with water contamination. And here in Seattle we have all this rainwater t’ be captured for free and sold for drinking water.”

“But how can you blame them? Bootleg water brings high prices in some places. Unfortunately, if they get caught, that’s a minimum prison sentence of two years.”

“I’ve noticed the police have been crackin’ down on the water runners even more now. Ever since the Powers, T’ang and Bianchetti Corporation cut their backroom deals and got the government to give them exclusive rights to sell and distribute water throughout the country.”

She sighs. “Who would ever have thought collecting rain that falls from the sky would be illegal? The PTB Corporation spreads its slimy tentacles everywhere.”

“I hear their next move is to make it illegal to grow your own food or sell it without government authorization. And o’ course, they’ll make sure tha’ only PTB subsidiaries have authorization.”

“No doubt,” she says, “they own everything, including the government.”

Traffic begins to move again, forming a single file around the tangle of police cars and abandoned van. A tiny black police drone hovers outside my car door, inspecting me, then zooms around to Kathryn’s side. She glares back at the drone until it buzzes away.

“Bloody hummingbird drones,” I mutter under my breath. “There are more o’ them all the time.”

“Well, they’re large enough to see, so we know when they’re around.” After a pause she adds, “At least for now.”

I don’t say anything, but I’m not so sure. Who knows how small they’ve been able to make the drones? Maybe these are only decoys.

I check my watch. Damn, we’re going to be late. But there’s no rushing through traffic in the clogged Seattle streets. I wind around the pedicabs which slow traffic and squeeze past buses stopped to let out passengers. At a red light we’re trapped behind a truck belching out clouds of black exhaust. Kathryn coughs when the noxious fumes reach inside my car. I hate coming into the cities. It would seem that with the gas rationing, the smog would decrease, but a lot of regulations were tossed out because they were considered too expensive to enforce, including the regulations on car exhaust. Maybe paying for surveillance drones drained the coffers.

Finally we enter I-5 and head south. “Where are we going?” Kathryn asks warily.

“Olympia. To Land’s End, an estate on Puget Sound.”

“Any connection to the Land’s End on the southwestern tip of England? I was born near there.”

“Yeah, that’s its namesake,” I reply cheerily. She falls silent, studying me. I sense wheels turning in her mind. How am I going to hold her questions at bay for an hour’s drive?

“So, why am I going there for a meeting about someone accused of murder?”

“Actually, we’ll be discussing tha’ matter after the meeting.”

“Okay, what’s this all about?”

“Sorry, I canno’ reveal the details yet.”

“What’s all this secrecy for? Good grief, why are you even involved with someone accused of murder? The only trouble you ever got into was taking a political stand or rocking the boat.”

This seems like a handy rabbit trail to take. One by one I revisit the controversial programs at Oxford I participated in. That succeeds in keeping the conversation lively and distracting her for nearly an hour.

Then Kathryn ambushes me. “So, who is this person accused of murder?”

“Right now all I’m t’ do is take you to the meeting.”

“I should have known.” The words ooze with underlying meaning.

“Known what?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you since Anne’s funeral three years ago. I should’ve known you weren’t here just for old time’s sake. So, it’s business.” Her voice is filled with disappointment. “Why, Collin? Anne was my best friend. I wrote and called you, trying to help. But you never replied, not once.”

“Sorry. I just couldn’t.”

“Did I do something wrong? Say something wrong?”

“No. That’s no’ your style.”

“Then, why?”

“Because you were Anne’s closest friend. You were practically sisters.” How can I explain? Anne and she looked so different and yet were so much alike. Anne had the curly red hair of the Irish, and Kathryn, although Irish on her mother’s side, has the straight black hair of her father’s English heritage. But their eyes, so much alike—brilliant and intense. Wherever they focused their energy, they brought that unique combination of daring and compassion. And their smiles could stop a man dead in his tracks. Anne’s surely did that to me.

My Anne. So gentle and loving with me. But she also had that Irish temper. So fiery and fierce when she was angered by the poverty that seems to be everywhere or the wars that always devastate the innocent. That’s why she became a photojournalist. She wanted to expose the corruption and greed that causes those tragedies. Whenever she went off on one of her journeys, I was always fearful. Then she was gone. Forever. And I couldn’t see Kathryn without seeing Anne. I think that’s the reason I froze Kathryn out of my life. Partly from grief, partly out of self-preservation.

“You reminded me o’ her. It hurt too much.” When I glance over, the pain reflected on her face tells how hurt she was too. “Not calling or explaining wasn’t right. Will ya forgive me?”

Her eyes become watery. “Of course. I was a bit hard on you just now. Sorry.”

“Friends?” I reach out my hand.

She takes it and gives me a conciliatory smile. “Friends.”

A silence falls between us. After a couple minutes Kathryn is studying me again. Maybe music will distract her. “Radio, scan music channels.”

“Trying to stall by playing music?”

“Only if it works,” I shoot back. She rolls her eyes.

I stop on my favorite channel, unfortunately just as the promo begins: “PALnet—the Private Advantage Link—your unsurpassed internet connection to the world.”

Kathryn frowns. “Don’t you have your own music? I try to avoid the PTB canned programming on PALnet.”

“Radio, play my favorites,” I quickly order. As my music begins, Kathryn smiles her approval, and we talk once again about our days at Oxford. Thankfully Kathryn doesn’t press me for more information. I don’t want to scare her off before they can make their pitch for her to take the case. Judging from her reaction, it’ll be a hard sell. But we have to try. She’s the one we think can do what is needed. More importantly, we feel she has the ability to work with him.

Turning onto Cooper Point Road, we drive through Olympia’s suburbs, past deserted shopping malls and abandoned restaurants. This unending depression has invaded even these affluent areas. Finally, we’re out of Olympia and driving through lush, green countryside with its fresh, clean air. Trees line the road, protectively blocking the view of large homes. We pass the golf course, still neatly manicured for wealthy clientele. Turning down a side road, we drive the last mile through dense forest until we reach the tall brick wall enclosing the estate.

I pull up to the fortress-like gates. Peering into the red eye of the security camera, I declare, “Collin McKay and Kathryn Copeland.”

When the gates slide open, two armed security men motion for us to proceed. “Where in hell have you brought me, Collin?” she demands.

I can’t look her in the eye. “We’re almost there.”

We proceed down the long driveway, overshadowed by towering cedar and spruce. After a half-mile the forest ends abruptly. For security reasons, only ground-hugging grass covers the land in this part of the estate.

As she takes in the long line of buildings that trail the cliff above Puget Sound, Kathryn shakes her head. “You called this an estate. It looks more like a military installation. What is this?”

I can’t argue with her description. The facades on this side of the buildings are stark and windowless, constructed with monumental blocks of granite that look like they were left over from the pyramids.

“Well, it’s no’ military for certain. This is a private estate and also somewhat of a business.”

“Somewhat? What does that mean?”

“Sorry, I really canno’ say anything more just yet.”

The road winds through the clearing, between the neat white fence which encloses the pasture with stables on the right and the rambling buildings on the left. I’m relieved when Kathryn turns her attention to the half dozen prize horses grazing in the pasture.

Finally we reach the courtyard outside the one part of the façade which appears inviting. As soon as I park, a waiting security guard opens the door for Kathryn and another takes my keys to repark my car in the underground garage. Kathryn hesitates at the foot of the massive marble stairs leading up to Chinese-style double doors. I give her an encouraging smile and escort her up the steps. As we arrive at the top, one of the doors opens and the elderly twig of a butler appears. With a bow and sweeping gesture of his white-gloved hand, he welcomes us in. Under his appraising gaze, I usher Kathryn over the threshold.

“Good evening, madame and Dr. McKay.” The butler draws back his lipless smile.

“Good evening, George.” A tad anxious, I add, “I assume everyone’s here for the meeting?”

“Indeed. You’re late,” he sniffs. “Everyone has been in the library for some time.”

I hope we’re not too late. The plan was for Kathryn to hear the last item on the agenda. “We’ll hurry right along, then.”

As we rush through the mansion, I sense Kathryn’s mounting tension. She resents being manipulated, but how could I have told her the truth? Would she have believed it? Will she believe it even now?