Guilt

But twelve! Magically appearing out of the woodwork within the last few weeks…?

Dooher didn't think so, but what he thought didn't matter much anymore. He had to contain this lunatic. It's what Flaherty expected him to do. It's what he got paid for. 'Let's talk about Mrs Diep for a moment, the suit that's already been filed. She's asking for-'

But Trang was shaking his head, interrupting. 'No, no, Mr Dooher. That is in the past. I've uncovered a widespread problem that would, frankly, benefit from a public forum. Your Archbishop may have meant well, but many people have been damaged. And I think as we proceed that many other victims will come forward. Don't you think that's likely? It's the way these things often go.'

Again, the smile.

Dooher knew he was right. Trang's plan was wonderful – he'd prime the pump with bogus victims, then, once the issue made the daily news, everyone who had ever been kissed by a priest was going to stand up and ask to join the party.

'Which is why we would prefer you not to proceed.'

A nod that perhaps Trang believed was dignified, magnanimous. He was going to be a good winner.

Dooher wasn't prepared to be a loser, however. Not to this little upstart gook. That wasn't going to happen. Not now. Not ever. 'The Archdiocese wants to redress the wrongs it may have inadvertently condoned, Mr Trang. That's why we're talking. These people,' he indicated the list on the table, 'now they may feel betrayed, but I don't think there's much of a case that they've been substantially damaged. Mrs Diep, yes. Her daughter, okay. We're prepared to give Mrs Diep her fifty thousand, with another fifty to be distributed among,' he paused, a look of distaste, 'among your other clients.'

Trang sucked on his front teeth. 'If you deduct my fees, that really satisfies no one completely. Thirty thousand among twelve people is an insult for what they've endured. You must know that. And Mrs Diep will still be out nearly twenty thousand in cash, plus the interest.'

Dooher held up a hand. 'We'll pay your fees on top.' This upped his offer to $135,000 or so. This situation was making his stomach churn with rage and impotence. Nearly three times what Trang had been asking only last week and-

And he was still shaking his head no. 'I don't think that figure addresses the seriousness of these charges, Mr Dooher, the sense my clients feel that there should be some punishment so that the Archbishop will think twice before allowing these betrayals to occur on his watch. A hundred thousand is a mere slap on the wrist. He'd never feel it.'

Swallowing his bile, Dooher folded his hands in front of him. 'What do you want, Trang?'

It was a simple question. Palms up, Trang came clean. 'The amended complaint asks for three million.'

Dooher kept his face impassive. This had become personal, Trang playing him like some fish. But he wasn't going to flop for him. He waited.

'Perhaps I could convince my clients that half of that figure would be a reasonable compensation for their suffering.'

A million five! Dooher knew that this wasn't close to what he'd been authorized to offer. And yet if he didn't get to some agreement they'd all have to go to court and the whole thing would become public. Even if most of Trang's clients were invented, the fallout would poison Flaherty. And Dooher would have failed in every respect. He could not let that happen.

'That's too much,' he snapped. He grabbed the paper again, ran his eyes down the list. 'I'll tell you what we will do, Mr Trang. Final offer, and subject to a confidentiality agreement, no press conferences…' He was showing his temper, and paused a fraction of a second for control. This was his last card and he knew he'd better play it. 'Six hundred thousand dollars.'

Trang showed nothing. It was as though Dooher hadn't said a word. He was in the middle of lifting his cup to his lips, and there wasn't even a pause. He drank, put the cup down. 'That is really excellent tea,' he said. Then, as though it were an afterthought, 'Six hundred thousand dollars.'

Dooher let him live a minute with the number. Then he said, 'A lot of money.' He didn't say, 'And two hundred grand for you, you slant-eyed little prick.' Which was what he was thinking.

'It is a lot of money,' Trang agreed, 'but it is also a long way from three million, or even one five. If I may, I'd like to take the offer under advisement. Speak to my clients.'

'Of course,' Dooher said, except he knew that Trang had nobody to discuss anything with. He decided he had to raise the stakes. 'But this offer expires at close of business today. Five o'clock.'

Trang digested that, then began gathering his papers, packing them into his briefcase. 'In that case, I'd better be on my way. It's going to be a busy day.'

The sun had come out for what seemed the first time this year, and that springtime sense of hope in the air prompted Christina to walk into Sam's office.

Her boss was sitting in the hard chair, tilted back, her eyes closed, her arms crossed over her chest, and her ankles crossed on her desk. Sensing a presence in the doorway, she opened her eyes.

'I hate all men,' she said. 'Well, I don't hate my brothers or my father, but all the other ones.'

Christina leaned against the door, smiling. 'How do you feel about volunteer rape counsellors?'

'I don't think they should be men.' Sam shook her head. 'I'm sorry about the other day. Sergeant Glitsky came by here and told me you 'd come down to his office, outside of office hours, doing your job.' She paused. 'I'm a jerk as a person and a lousy boss, aren't I?'

'Which one?'

A nod. 'I deserve that.'

But Sam was trying to apologize and Christina didn't think it was a moment for sarcasm. 'Neither, really,' she said. 'Neither a jerk nor a lousy boss. You care a lot, Sam, that's all. That's a positive thing.'

'Too much.'

Christina shrugged. 'Beats the opposite, doesn't it? I'm going out to get some coffee. You think the office will survive fifteen minutes without us here? Or should I bring you back something?'

Sam considered a moment, then brought her feet down off the desk and stood up. I'll leave a note on the door.'

They waited in line at an espresso place down the street from the Center. Sam's general theme on men had narrowed to the specific.

'Wes Farrell?' Christina was saying. 'Where do I know that name?'

'He's Levon Copes's attorney.'

'No, that's not it. I didn't know that before you just told me. I know that name from somewhere else.'

Sam had omitted the details of her interaction with Wes Farrell, leaving it only that they'd met and she'd given him a piece of her mind.

'Maybe you saw it on one of Glitsky's reports or something.'

'Maybe.' Christina ordered a latte, her brow still furrowed, trying to remember. When they'd gotten served, they sat at a tiny two-seat table up by the window, in the sun. They shared the sill with two cats, and one of them purred up against Christina's arm. 'Anyway,' Christina said, 'I didn't think last week was the greatest time to tell you – just when you were finally starting to believe that I was a real person who genuinely cares about the people I try to help, which I am.'

'I know that now. I see that.'

'Well, but… so now this is a little awkward, but I wanted to give you notice that pretty soon I'm going to have to stop coming into the Center, doing this.'

A long dead moment. 'Because of this Tania Willows thing?'

'No. Really because in about a month I'm taking finals, then graduating, then studying for the Bar and working full-time for a firm downtown, which I hear is about a hundred hours a week. Then taking the Bar. I'm not going to have any time.'