Free First degree by David Rosenfelt

do."
    "Well, let me tell you something, man. You know that list you wanted from me, of my enemies? People who would frame me? Well, she's number one, right on top."
    "You're dreaming, Oscar."
    "Yeah, well, she's been following me, watching me all the time. Like I can't get rid of her. And a friend of mine said she was hanging near my apartment the other day when I was out."
    I trust Oscar about as far as I can throw Mount Rushmore, but I instinctively know that he is telling the truth about this. He has no real reason to lie, and it fits in with Laurie's cryptic comment about having knowledge of Oscar's criminal progress since she left the force.
    I don't have time to reflect on the possible implications of Oscar's comment, because I find myself staring at the sweaty hand of Dylan Campbell, who, for the benefit of the assembled media, has come over to wish me luck.
    I wouldn't describe today's event as a media circus; there is much more press here than usual, but the crush is far from overwhelming. The reason for whatever news-worthiness the hearing has rests in the victim's being a cop, however discredited, and the brutal nature of the crime.
    The judge, Susan Timmerman, enters, and the bailiff calls the proceedings to order. Judge Timmerman will be handling only this hearing; the case hasn't yet been assigned. It's unfortunate, because she is a fair judge who doesn't show any bias toward the prosecution, and we have gotten along fairly well in the past.
    The charges contained in the case of New Jersey v. Oscar Garcia are read, and counsel are identified. Oscar is asked how he pleads and he performs his part correctly, saying, "Not guilty," with conviction and a trace of indignation. In Oscar's case, a trace is all the indignation one can stomach.
    The not guilty plea creates the need for trial, and that is what the court must consider next. Timmerman does not have all the judges' schedules, and doesn't know who the judge will be anyway, but she can at least tentatively set a date. We agree on July 14, about four months from now, and Judge Timmerman asks if there is anything else she must consider.
    I jump up. "Discovery, Your Honor."
    "What about it?" she asks.
    "I've discovered that opposing counsel doesn't seem to believe in it. I've requested reports that have not been turned over."
    Dylan looks mortally wounded. "Your Honor," he complains, "the request was made just yesterday."
    I'm having none of this. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but we are talking about the copying of reports. That takes minutes, not days. I would be happy to walk with Mr. Campbell to his office and do it myself. Secondly, the timing of the request is not important; it's not even necessary at all. The prosecution should be aware of their discovery obligations with or without a specific request. Documents should be copied and turned over as they are received, without editing."
    The judge nods and issues the order. "The state will turn over copies of whatever reports it has in its possession by close of business today."
    She slams her gavel, effectively adjourning the proceedings. The courtroom empties quickly, and with the press having dispersed, Dylan forgets to exchange parting pleasantries.
    I arrange to meet with Oscar later to discuss the case in detail for the first time. I'm particularly interested in his whereabouts on the night of the murder. I'm hoping he was having dinner with the secretary of state or being interviewed by Ted Koppel on Nightline .
    Laurie is waiting for me in the back of the courtroom, and Oscar doesn't take his eyes off her the entire time he is being led off. Those eyes are not ogling; they are hating and fearing.
    Once Oscar is out of sight, I go back and meet Laurie.
    "You pissed Dylan off," she points out.
    I nod. "Had to happen sooner or later."
    "This is sooner. Listen, Andy, I want to work on this case."
    This surprises me. "You don't have to do that. I know how you feel about Oscar."
    "That doesn't matter. I'm a