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of Oregon v. Charles Darren Deems. Almost two years ago, Abbie had convicted Deems, an especially violent psychopath, for the pipe-bomb murder of a witness and his nine year-old daughter. The Supreme Court had taken the case on automatic review because Deems had been sentenced to death.
    The slip sheet was the copy of the opinion that was sent to the attorneys in the case as soon as the Supreme Court issued its ruling.
    Later, the opinion would be published in the bound volumes of the official reporter that were sent to law libraries.
    Abbie looked down the cover sheet past the caption of the case and the names of the attorneys until she found the line she was looking for. "Oh no!"
    "It's worse than that," Stamm said. "They threw out his statements to Rice."
    "That was my whole case," Abbie said incredulously. "I won't be able to retry him."
    "You got it," Stamm agreed grimly.
    "Which judge wrote this piece of shit?" Abbie asked, her rage barely contained as she scanned the cover sheet to find the name of the justice who had authored the opinion. Stamm could not meet her eye.
    "That son of a bitch," she said, so softly that Stamm barely heard her.
    Abbie crumpled the opinion in her fist. "I can't believe he would stoop this low. He did this to make me look bad."
    "I don't know, Abbie," Stamm said halfheartedly. "He had to convince three other judges to go along with him."
    Abbie stared at Stamm. Her rage, disappointment and frustration were so intense, he looked away. She dropped the opinion on the floor and walked out of her office. Stamm bent down to retrieve the document.
    When he smoothed it out, the name of the opinion's author could be seen clearly. It was the Honorable Robert Hunter Griffen, justice of the Oregon Supreme Court and Abbie's estranged husband.
    Chapter TWO
    Bob Packard, attorney-at-law, was a large man going to seed. His belt cut into his waist, because he stubbornly insisted on keeping it a notch too tight. There were fat rolls on his neck and a puffiness in his cheeks. At the moment, Packard was not feeling well.
    His trust and general account ledgers were open on his desk. He had checked them twice and the totals had not changed. Packard unconsciously ran a hand across his dry lips. He was certain there was more money in both accounts. His billings were up, clients were paying.
    Where had the money gone? His office overhead had not changed and his household expenses had not increased.
    Of course, there was the money he was spending for cocaine.
    That seemed to be increasing recently.
    Packard took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He rotated his neck and shrugged his shoulders to work out the tension. If the white lady was the problem, he would just have to stop. It was that simple.
    Cocaine was not a necessity. He could take it or leave it and he would just have to leave it. Once his current supply ran out, there would be no more.
    Packard felt better now that his problem was solved. He put away the ledgers and picked up a case he needed to read in order to prepare a pretrial motion that was due in two days. It was imperative that he win the motion. If his client went to trial he was doomed. This motion had to be an A number one, slam-bang winner.
    Packard started to read the case, but it was hard to concentrate. He was still thinking about his money problems and still worried about that other problem. His supplier. The one who had been arrested two days ago, just before Packard was going to pick up a little something to augment his dwindling supply.
    Of course, he was going to stop, so there was no problem. But what if, just for the sake of argument, he needed some coke and couldn't get any.
    It made him jittery just thinking about it and he needed to keep calm and focused so he could write the motion.
    Packard thought about the zip-lock bag in his bottom drawer.
    If he took a hit, he could whiz through the research on the motion and get it written. And there would be that much less cocaine to