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.A series of buildings really, interconnected, low and flat to the ground, trussed and arched in such a way so as to make it appear as if the buildings themselves were part of the hills.The walls were clay-colored, and the roofs were blue.A gilded tower, Hinduist in design but empty on the inside, without function, rose from a dome over the Hall of Justice.It was early and the county workers were making their way up the terrace toward the building.A little dowdy, frumpy and out of shape, like county workers everywhere.I sauntered behind them, a bit envious maybe.At times I yearned to be one of the group, a regular guy, free of this wry smile, this hollowness inside.Meanwhile I could hear the thunder of the freeway in the arroyo nearby, and overhead a hawk was circling, feathering the currents above the road.I followed the workers up the hill and inside, near the elevator, I bumped into Minor Robinson.It wasn’t surprising, I suppose; he was the prosecutor after all.We were dressed the same more or less.Blue suits and black wingtips.White shirts, ironed crisp.Such coincidences of wardrobe are not unusual among courtroom professionals but Minor and I bore other resemblances as well.I had been mistaken for him once or twice in these halls.Something about our build, maybe, or the way we stood.There were other ways, too, in which we were similar.We’d both lived in LA for a little while.We’d both had ragged childhoods, and we’d both studied criminal psychology.Also we’d both lost our first wives, mine to drowning, his to cancer.Now we stood together waiting for the Otis to make its way down.I was scheduled to testify, and Minor would cross-examine.“So, are you going to take it easy when I’m on the stand?” I meant it as an off-hand remark, nothing serious, as I certainly didn’t expect him to go easy—there was no reason he should—but I smiled anyway and we shook hands and he smiled, too.“I’d like to, Jake,” he said, “but the way you charm a jury, I can’t take any chances.”We both laughed now.It was a collegial laugh: buddies, just joshing around.The truth was he’d bumped me from the county roster, and I knew he’d show no mercy once I was on the stand.“You’re on quite a hot streak yourself,” I said.“It’s been a while since you lost a case, hasn’t it?”“I lose my share.”“Don’t be modest.With your trial record, you’ll be in charge of the office before long.You’ll advance.”“I’m just a county prosecutor.That’s all I am.That’s all I want to be.”“That’s what I admire about you,” I said, “your civic intention.It’s pretty rare these days.”If he suspected I was flattering him unduly, such suspicion did not show in his face.He smiled gamely.His eyes were clear.Meanwhile the elevator took its time.A couple of trial lawyers drifted by, a man and a woman talking passionately not about law but about real estate, about the cost of property, about their soaring portfolios, they were sure, and a wine ripening in one of their cellars.A professional romance, I gathered from their postures, the way they leaned toward one another.Illicit as can be.They went on chatting as they drifted down that long hall, with its pink walls and open roof and palm fronds reaching toward the sun.The building was like a crevice in a mountain, a canyon that wound through the shadows then back into the open.There were spots of cold, of ferns and stone, and places where the sun poured down from the upper arcades.The couple wandered into one of those spaces now and high above I could see trumpet flowers tumbling over the terrace walls.I thought of the moment those two would spend together later, furtive, full of themselves, and I remembered my time with Sara.“What do you get, a case like this?” he asked I didn’t quite follow.It seemed an odd question.“Money, you mean?”“There’s more to it than that, don’t you think?”The elevator was caught on another floor, and I regretted not having walked on, taking the stairs.Minors shirt was very white, whiter than mine, and his collar starched, and I remembered someone telling me once upon a time that he’d studied to be a priest.“No, people don’t go into my profession for money,” I said.“It’s not something you get rich at.Not usually.”“No?” He was mocking me, I thought.“The accused is entitled to a defense,” I said.“And the law has long recognized that the circumstance under which a crime is committed, the how, the why, these are a legitimate part of the defense.A person’s past, the abuse he has suffered, his mental state, his biochemistry—these are part of the circumstances a jury needs to understand.Not always, but sometimes, in some cases, such information is extremely pertinent.”Minor’s face had gone hard but there was still that angelic look in his eyes, the soft voice.“You’re good,” he said, but there was something stem there, judgmental—as if he did not mean it as a compliment.The elevator came at last and we stepped inside.“The schedule’s been shuffled, you realize,” said Minor.“You’re not on till 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