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  "Uh," Sharon hesitated, twirling a finger in her spiked hair. "Do you mind if I ask whether you won or lost? I mean, I can usually tell by the way you look, but you look kind of neutral . . ."

  "I guess I won," Madison said, giving her chair half a spin and looking out at the long green river snaking through the city, "but not the way I wanted to."

  Sharon raised one eyebrow and held her ground.

  "We didn't get a verdict," Madison explained, sensing Sharon's curiosity. "Before they could come back the DA offered me a plea I couldn't in good conscience refuse. I wanted to, because I think I would have gotten an acquittal, but when you're talking about the difference between taking a chance on jail, no matter how small it is, and guaranteeing just probation, you take the deal."

  "Well, if anyone knows how hard you worked on that case, it's me, and I can't think anyone would blame you for wanting to get the verdict, especially since we all know the only kind of verdicts you get are the good kind."

  "Thanks, Sharon," Madison said, spinning her chair back toward the room with a weak smile. "No calls and no meetings, please. I need to think."

  "Coffee?"

  "You're an angel."

  'Yeah, people tell me all the time. Still no milk?"

  "I don't know," Madison said. Through her blouse she pinched the skin just above her waistband. The secretary rolled her eyes.

  "Oh, what the hell, yes. No, no, don't. I don't need it."

  "One fat-free coffee on the way," Sharon said with a disapproving frown, closing the door as she went.

  Madison turned back to the river. After a few minutes of contemplation she looked up as the door opened, expecting coffee. Instead she got Chris Pelo. He crossed the room without an invitation and promptly hopped up on the corner of her ornately carved Louis XIV antique desk. His legs dangled nearly a foot above the oriental rug.

  "Did you hear?" he said.

  "About the Polt deposition, the Vecchio matter, or the fact that Mr. Aguillar wants to throw himself at the mercy of a merciless judge?"

  "No," Chris said without missing a beat, "about Clark Cromwell?"

  Madison chuckled quietly through her nose. "Yes," she said. "I heard. And now you want me to throw myself at the mercy of Armand Ulrich before I give my speech at the conference at UCLA on Thursday."

  "He's meeting you at Spago at seven-thirty."

  "Whoa! Did I miss something?"

  "Not yet. You've got until tomorrow night at seven-thirty," Chris said with a juvenile grin that looked pretty silly on a vertically challenged Latin American ex-cop in his mid-forties. Unlike Madison's, Chris's age was more than obvious. His thin, wiry black mustache and an equally unruly thatch of dark strawlike hair were beginning to show random white strands, and his dark face had the look of old leather.

  "And," Chris said, sliding a piece of paper her way across the corner of the desk, "here's a short list of ten contact calls I want you to make during the flight."

  "Contact calls?" Madison moaned. "We haven't even signed the clients we've got contracts for this year."

  "You can't start too soon with these college players. Same thing with free agents."

  "Do you remember the days when you used to tell me all I had to do was step in and close the deals?"

  "feah, your office was ... let me see, down on twenty-three in those days, wasn't it?" Chris said, still grinning.

  "Funny."

  "Well, with the Polt thing postponed I figured you wouldn't mind. You have to be in L. A. anyway."

  Madison thought about Clark Cromwell's situation for a moment, then said, "I don't remember studying these kinds of contracts back in law school, do you? The kind where one side can breach at any time and the other side gets to pound sand."

  "Don't think of it as contract law. Think of it as the Uniform Commercial Code under the failure to deliver goods or services."

  "You mean damaged goods," Madison pointed out. 'It's like buying a lawn mower, running it down the side of a creek bed, and then refusing to make payments because the blade is bent."

  "That's exactly what I want you to say to Armand Ulrich at dinner."

  "You mean you don't want me to remind him that he was a player himself once?"

  "That won't do you any good. They didn't make the kind of money back then that they make today. He has no sympathy. He'll tell you that in his entire ten-year career he didn't make half as much as he paid to last year's first-round draft pick in signing bonus alone."

  "That could cause a shortage of sympathy."

  "The more money people make," Chris said wryly, "the less sympathy they get. That's why I don't feel bad having you go to L. A. two hours early."

  Madison gave him the finger and Chris laughed out loud.

  "I knew all this exposure to the world of football would change you," he said.

  "You forgot that I live with two football players. The only reason I'm doing it is because I like Clark Cromwell and I think it stinks the way they do this. It's exactly what they did to Cody."

  Cody Grey was Madison's husband, a former player for the Texas Outlaws who was cut midseason in his final year after playing a series of games with a novocaine-filled knee for the good of the team. When he could no longer move well enough to make a tackle, that same team abruptly cut him.

  "It's what they do to everybody," Chris reminded her.

  "But Clark Cromwell?" Madison said. "That's like knocking down a ... a Boy Scout, or pulling Santa Claus's beard. Why don't we just call some other teams?"

  "I did," Chris told her grimly. "Believe it or not, I spoke to every team that has any real need for a blocking back . . ."

  "And?"

  "The Jets offered me minimum salary if he passes their physical," Chris said glumly.

  "Minimum salary?"

  "No one wants to touch him with this neck injury. They think even if he does heal that he won't ever be the same. He makes his living knocking into people with his head. No one wants to take the chance. Besides, he's old."

  "Yeah," Madison said. "I forgot. He's thirty-one."

  "That's old."

  "So Ulrich is our best chance?"

  "I think our only chance."

  "And what makes you think he'll do anything more than what the Jets offered?"

  "Because he's having dinner with you," Chris said, smiling big. "And you're a lawyer . . . and you're a woman."

  "Now I've heard it all."

  "How was the case?" Chris said, knowing by her reaction that she'd do what he'd asked and wanting to change the subject.

  Madison threw her hands up over her head. "Lousy."

  "I heard you got a plea without jail."

  "I did," Madison sulked. "But I'm so tired of this kind of crap. I had a middle-aged accountant who walked into his daughter's home to find his son-in-law beating her with a piece of hose, probably not for the first time. My client hits this creep with a fire poker and breaks his neck. The DA was pressing for attempted murder and aggravated assault. I could have had that jury acquitting him with my opening statement alone. I think the DA knew it, so instead of going through with the trial she offers me third-degree assault, still a felony, but with the judge agreeing to suspend the sentence. It just burned me to have to stand there next to that man and hear him plead guilty to anything.

  "There's almost a formula these days for what the DA will take on any given case," Madison complained. "No one wants to just try a case anymore and let it all ride on the jury. That's what I miss. It seems like a long time since I had a good courtroom battle."

  "Maybe you're representing the wrong kind of clients."

  "Meaning?"

  Chris shrugged. "Just that in the last couple of years since you've gotten famous, you've had your pick of clients and you only seem to take the innocent-looking ones."

  "I like to believe in my clients, thank you," she snapped, her back stiffening.

  Chris nodded his head and said, "Then you'll keep getting pleas. If it's obvious to you that th
ey're innocent, chances are the same will hold true for the jury, the judge, and eventually even the DA's office, although I admit it takes them a while. "Vbu need to take on some clients that are on the edge. Just something to think about."

  "Maybe you're right. If trouble won't find me," she said sarcastically, "maybe I'll have to go find some trouble."

  The next evening Madison was at Spago at the appointed time. Ulrich was late. When he finally did arrive, he turned some heads. Ulrich was six foot eight, and while the distribution of his frame had shifted over time, he was still massive. An outdated seersucker suit and a broad blue bow tie did nothing to hide his bulk. His face and the shining bald dome of his head were deeply tanned, and he could easily have been the villain in a James Bond movie. His appearance and the fact that he was the owner of a highly successful NFL franchise made him a celebrity in a town of celebrities. In fact, Madison was certain that he had drawn as much attention from the other patrons in the restaurant as Oliver Stone had when he arrived twenty minutes earlier. Of course.

  Ulrich may have muscled in on some of the famous film director's notoriety by stopping at his table for a convivial five-minute chat.

  Finally Ulrich sat down across from Madison and extended his mighty hand. "Madison," he said congenially. The two of them had dealt directly with each other during Clark Cromwell's contract negotiation less than a year ago, and Madison had insisted on his calling her by her first name.

  "Armand," she said, returning his smile.

  "I'm sorry about that," he said, inclining his head toward Stone, "but he's working on a film about the NFL and because he's in my backyard the other owners around the league seem to think I have some influence as to how we'll all be portrayed."

  "They must not have seen JFK," Madison replied.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "If they'd seen JFK," Madison said, "they'd know that Oliver Stone does his own thing and everyone else be damned. I mean, the Pentagon was livid about how he made them out to be part of the conspiracy, but he went right ahead and did it anyway."

  "Well," the owner said, unfolding his napkin, "he's a big 49ers fan, so I promised him he could meet the team when they play here next season. I'm sure Carmen won't mind. I had some associates of his as guests in my box for the Jets game last season."

  "That's the way the world works," Madison said with a winning smile. "You do something for me, I do something for you."

  "The lamb is particularly good," Ulrich said as the waiter handed Madison a menu. He ordered a bottle of wine before saying, "So what's that something?"

  "Clark Cromwell," she said. "I want you to pay him like the player he is."

  "You mean the player he was."

  "No, I mean the player he is," Madison insisted. "He'll be every bit as productive this season as he has for the last eight."

  "Of course you're confident in his abilities," Ulrich said leaning forward. "I am too. But he's not worth what he was. I'm sure you've learned that from the response he's gotten from other teams. So, you want me to pay him like the player he was. Am I right?"

  "Yes," Madison said reluctantly. "But you know what he can do. You know what he will do, what he's done, what he's meant to this team."

  "How could I forget?" Ulrich said, raising both eyebrows and giving her a twisted smile. "You reminded me day after day when we worked out his deal last summer. That's why I gave him a million-dollar signing bonus and over two million dollars in salary last year, and that's why it doesn't bother me to offer you three hundred and fifty thousand this year."

  "That's an insult to a player of his caliber," Madison said flatly. "That's barely over the minimum."

  "It's more than anyone else is going to give him."

  The waiter returned and the two of them ordered, Madison intentionally not getting the lamb, even though it sounded good.

  "I want you to give Clark a contract that's respectable," she said after the waiter had gone. "I don't want to have to dance around for the next six months negotiating. You know what kind of a player he is, and you know what kind of a person he is. This is the guy that parents point to as an example of what's good in sports. In today's sports world, he's an unusual and valuable commodity."

  "Unusual, I'll give you . . . Valuable? Look around. It makes nice soft news, but people aren't interested in a good guy. People want a championship team. Period. The kind of person he is has nothing to do with it."

  Then, in another tone of voice, a voice without passion, he said, "I've got to clear enough money under the cap to sign a major free-agent running back. This is about winning a championship, Madison. You know that. There are only two NFL owners who ever played the game, and it's very important to me to show the rest of them that if you played, you know what it takes to win. It starts at the top. I have the right coach, the right defense, the right quarterback, and an adequate offensive line. What I don't have is a runner, so I'm going to buy one. That's why I'm cramming down every salary I can. I can't pay Clark two point five million when I know I can get him for three- fifty."

  "If you sign who I think you're going to sign, you'll need Clark Cromwell even more. Do you think you can have a team made up entirely of criminals and thugs and win a championship? If you sign Trane Jones, that's all the more reason to pay Clark a decent number and have a decent person to counterbalance what you'll have. The character of a team can be just as important as the talent," Madison said passionately. "You know that better than me."

  The wine came. Ulrich tasted it and told the waiter to pour.

  "I'll pay your client half a million this year, Madison, but I'll only do it on one condition . . ."

  "And that is?"

  "You owe me a favor."

  "A favor?"

  "Yes, something out of the ordinary. I don't know what, but I have a great respect for you and your abilities as an attorney. It would be worth it to me to know that if I needed you for something you'd be there."

  "There are some things I don't do," Madison said.

  "I'm not talking about something unethical," Ulrich said with an avuncular smile and a casual wave of his hand. "I'm just talking about something you might not prefer to do. Maybe the son of a friend gets into trouble with drugs and needs a good lawyer. Maybe my board of directors accuses me of absconding with money from the corporate treasury. I don't know what it is, a favor. That's what I want in return. Otherwise, you can take the three-fiftv and better luck next time." "A million," Madison said. "My favors are seven-figure favors."

  Ulrich smiled so hard that two hidden crow's-feet broke out in the thick skin around his eyes.

  "I can give you a seven in the figure, but not seven figures. I'll give you seven hundred thousand, but no more. You're right about Trane Jones. I'm going to have to make him the highest- paid player in the league to sign him, and I need all the cap room I can get."

  "Seven-fifty," Madison said. "I'm talking about respect, and three quarters of a million is respectable. Seven hundred thousand isn't."

  "You have a deal, young lady," Ulrich said.

  "Good," Madison said, raising her glass. "Here's to the perpetuation of decency in sports."

  "Here's to . . . reciprocity," said the owner, and they drank.

  Chapter 6

  Conrad Dobbins's home was a massive contemporary structure perched on one of the highest peaks in West Hollywood. Four men including Dobbins sat around a glass patio table that seemed almost suspended in the night. The lights of Los Angeles flickered below. The men had been playing dominoes since just after dinner, and a warm breath from the distant Pacific never induced them to move inside.

  Someone said, I heard some shit went down in New Orleans."

  "Conrad, shut that shit off, will ya?" Trane Jones said to his agent. There weren't many people who could talk that way to Conrad Dobbins, but Trane was one of them.

  Conrad leaned forward and clicked off the 8mm camera that sat on the tabletop in front of him. He wore a thick gold medallion that clanked against the
table. His head was bald and counterbalanced by an angry Fu Manchu mustache and beard. Like Trane, he wore sunglasses even at night.

  "I got this young thing, pretty young thing," Trane said slyly, "and we're gettin' it on all night an I wake up an' she's dead as hell an' motherfuckin' blood is everywhere.

  "So first thing I'm thinking," Trane continued, the light re- fleeting off the nearby pool's surface giving his evil grin an otherworldly quality, "is... I fucked that bitch to motherfuckin' death!"

  Snickers from around the table, until Trane slapped down his last bone and snatched the stack of hundreds.

  "Fuck you," muttered Lester Spinnicker in his booming bass. He was Conrad's top boxer at the moment, the number-one heavyweight contender.

  "That's it for me," murmured Shawntell Christianson.

  "Bitch!" exclaimed Dobbins.

  "But that bitch really died from the junk, right?" Christianson said with a somewhat worried expression. He wanted to clarify the story. Christianson was the L. A. Lakers' sixth man and a soft brother. He knew the hard life from growing up in south Philly, but his grandmother's upbringing had indelibly marked him with a sense of compassion that none of the rest of them shared.

  "Yeah, but how am I suppose to know that then?" Trane said, looking around the table to make sure his boys knew the gravity of the situation. "I'm thinkin' she had a goddamn hemorrhage from me just working it an' the bitch bled to motherfuckin' death. I'm tellin ya, blood was all over that motherfuckin' bed."

  "An you--"

  "Called my man," Trane said, looking into the agent's passive reptilian eyes. "What else?"

  Everyone nodded in agreement, even the hulking figure of Zee, who stood just out of the lamplight leaning against the railing behind Dobbins's chair. In a crowd of top-caliber athletes, Zee was still imposing. He was massive. On his head was a short mop of Rastafarian locks, and a jagged scar hopscotched down the side of his face, heightening the intensity of his pug-faced scowl.

  " 'Bout a half hour later," Trane continued, "brothers was comin' out of the motherfuckin' woodwork! They went to work like they was some kinda military task force--"