The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni

media attention. The trial will be high profile, which Ramsey should want with the upcoming election.”
    “It could have something to do with these.” She picked up the articles from the desk and tossed them in his lap. “A year ago everyone was falling all over themselves to get on the Father Martin bandwagon, including Mr. Tough on Crime.”
    Donley read through the first couple of headlines and opening sentences. He wasn’t convinced. “These people thrive on these types of high-profile crimes, and according to the archbishop, Ramsey is as slick as oil. I’m sure he could talk himself out of any perceived alliance with Father Martin’s shelter.”
    “Then trust your instincts. That man doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. He’s just like his father.”
    “The archbishop said something similar.” Donley dried his hair with the towel. “Whatever their motivation, they’ve managed to ruin my night. I’ll be preparing for an arraignment. I barely know what an arraignment is. I can’t believe I talked the archbishop into thinking I’m competent to handle this case.”
    “Quit complaining.” She’d found the brimstone. Ruth-Bell was a pistol, but he also knew she could have been home, or holiday shopping, or otherwise taking advantage of the situation. Instead, she was at the office, working as hard as if not harder than Donley. “You’re in a hell of a lot better position than your uncle. Besides, I already pulled all the legal treatises. It doesn’t appear too difficult.”
    Donley smiled. “Do you want to handle the arraignment?”
    “I’ll need a substantial increase in pay, if I do.” She took his towel and rolled it into a tube, placing it on the window frame to catch the water dripping from his suit. “Just keep your mouth shut as far as I can tell, and ask for a continuance. Nothing happens at arraignments; they read the charges and you say, ‘We are not prepared to enter a plea at this time.’ Then you waive your right to a speedy trial to get as much time as possible to figure things out. What you don’t know, you fake.”
    “In this instance, that will be a lot.”
    Either his wish was coming true and Donley was coming down with the flu, or the stress was making his joints ache. The onset of a headache pulsed at his temples. Before he could say a word, Ruth-Bell walked out of his office and returned with a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. She shook out two capsules and handed them to him, then moved the brown bag across the desk.
    “I bought you a sandwich and some chips. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. Drink water. Coke will just make you edgy, and for God’s sake, stay far away from the coffee.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You can thank me with a Jackson. We’re low on petty cash, and I couldn’t get to the bank.”
    Donley washed down the Advil and drained the glass, setting it on the desk. “They say he tortured that boy, Ruth-Bell. They say the priest is a pedophile.”
    She crossed her arms. “Maybe he is,” she said. “Maybe he isn’t. That’s not your concern.”
    “How can it not be my concern?”
    She put on her raincoat, speaking as she wrapped the scarf around her hair and retrieved her umbrella. “Quite a few years ago, when I was still thin and Lou was about your age, we got a call from the public defender’s office to represent a twenty-year-old kid who had murdered four people, including two young boys. It made all the newspapers, just like this. The kid was guilty, but just the same, Lou fought like hell to save his life. I didn’t understand it. I’d find him here at his desk every night working late, preparing motions and cross-examinations, whatever it took. I hated to see him working so hard for a lost cause. ‘Why are you killing yourself for this kid?’ I asked one night.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said, ‘It’s my job, Ruth-Bell. It’s my job to defend my client to the best of my ability, regardless