I lived in Cleveland for a while. It was small, but not too small with amenities of bigger cities, world-class orchestra, world-class museums, major league sports teams, a number of universities. Now, living in this backwater place, I’m wondering about Kevin and Sam – they’re not getting exposed to this stuff – time to move, I think.

Anyway, getting back to murder and mayhem, Morton left the office, probably not a happy camper. I grabbed a Coke out of the little refrigerator I had in my office. I caught one of the partners filching my stock one evening – he thought I was gone for the day. Cheapskate bastard. I didn’t think I was drinking on the job that much – He stays out now after I told him that I would be asking for reimbursement from the firm.

I had a bottle of Coke, one of those little 8 ounce glass bottles, holding it against my forehead – instead of aspirin, I guess, looking out of the window down on Public Square, I thought Morton’s case would be relatively straight forward if we advanced the insanity defense, but the guy was adamant in his denial of the killing. Have to admit that he killed her to plead insanity, but he said he didn’t do it. Not like I hadn't heard that one before. It was really about what kind of deal that could be cut, not whether he did it. The stakes, life and death, were too high, but it was premature to judge where we could go with the case without seeing what the evidence really was. Tangentially, you get involved in legal and constitutional issues, but most of those issues are used as leverage to cut the deal. And in most cases those issues don't come up. This isn't law school. You're representing real people who go to real prisons or to the electric chair.

A flock of pigeons flew away from me, as I watched, toward the Terminal Tower. Not too many years ago, Cleveland's Public Square was dominated by the Terminal Tower, built by the Van Schweringen brothers in 1932 in the neo-Gothic style. Now, the BP Building, nearly as tall but more massive than the old Terminal, and the Key Building, zooming more than 100 feet above the Terminal Tower, dominated the scene, contrasted with the parking lot bounding the northwest quadrant of what is truly a square. Two banks merged -- only needed one building. Ground that was broken for a new building was covered with asphalt and yellow lines for parking. Progress, I guess.

I spotted Frank Morton way down below, walking south on the wide sidewalk along Ontario Street, reaching the crowd waiting to cross Superior Avenue, the intersection at the center of Public Square. The traffic, both east and west, was bumper-to-bumper on Superior through the intersection of Ontario. Two busses northbound on Ontario pulled into the intersection, and only the curb-lane traffic of east-bound Superior yielded. A UPS van stuck in the intersection dared the busses to move closer. The busses stopped short. Morton threaded his way across Superior through the knotted traffic with the rest of the mob of pedestrians.

A black Pontiac Firebird, golden outline on the hood shimmering through the heat, tried to turn right from Superior onto Ontario. A skinny guy, wearing a white construction helmet with a long, whippy rod ending in an orange flag, crossing Superior, pounded on the Firebird hood with a white-gloved hand. A hand shot out the window that glided down, only the middle finger visible, pointing to the sky.

Morton passed the orange-flagged man without looking at him and veered to the left toward the steps of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. One of the cannon atop the monument was aimed at me, the dirty greenish-bronze soldiers trying to load it. The man with the orange-flagged helmet crossed the northeast quadrant of Public Square. He tossed something into the fountain that filled that quadrant.

Drizzle started to come down, funny how the rain looks from up high. I laid down on the couch in my office, feet hanging over the end. Closed my eyes. I didn’t know how long I was asleep, but the phone beeped once, twice, three times. I slid off the couch and got over to my desk and hit the ICM button for the intercom. Ginny, the receptionist, announced that Walker Wallace IV was there to see me. Never heard of the guy. Didn’t have an appointment. Ginny told me that Frank Morton sent him in and that it was important that I talk to him, relaying what Walker Wallace IV stated.

I told Ginny to put him in a conference room. I thought he might be one of Morton’s “vampire” alibis – what a mess this was going to be.