“Jeez, Aunt Winona. Way to think the worst of me.”
“I did trust you, remember? You made me look like an idiot in front of my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, well. Your boyfriend is a dick.”
“And God knows your high opinion of him is so important to me. Why do you need a lawyer?”
“If I hire you, everything we say is confidential, right?”
“Have you been studying law in social studies?”
“When I was on restriction, I watched a lot of TV. Law and Order is awesome.”
“Okay, yes. Our communications are confidential.”
“And if you take my case, you have to do your best, right?”
“I would hardly do less. But you’d have to pay me a retainer, of course. Two thousand dollars is standard for me.”
He pulled a one-dollar bill out of his pocket and set it on her desk. “There’s a family discount, I hope.”
She glanced down at the wrinkled, wadded-up dollar, and then up at Noah. Whatever this was about, he took it seriously. She knew she should send him on his way, but her curiosity was piqued. There were few things she hated more than unanswered questions. So she took the dollar bill and put it in her desk drawer. “Okay, Perry Mason. Hit me with your best shot.”
He leaned sideways and pulled a magazine out of his back-pack. He put it on her desk and shoved it toward her.
She saw the lead article’s headline. Seattle’s Best Lawyers. It was Seattle magazine’s yearly listing of the state’s top legal eagles. “Is this your subtle way of telling me that I’m not universally lauded by my peers? Because believe me, Noah, when a lawyer opens up shop in Oyster Shores, she pretty much knows her place on the food chain. And P.S., it’s near the bottom.”
“Turn to page ninety.”
She did. Beside an ad for one of the city’s newest high-rises, she saw a gloomy photograph of a man standing in front of a prison guard tower. The headline read: Innocence Project Northwest Works to Exonerate the Wrongly Accused.
“It’s about DNA testing,” he said.
“Noah,” she said gently, “that’s all water under the bridge with your dad. It’s over.”
“It’s not,” he said, stubbornly jutting out his chin. “They never tested his DNA. Mom told me.”
“Yes, they did.”
“No, they didn’t.”
She thought about that, scrolled through the facts she could recall. “Oh. That’s right. The sample was too small.”
“Maybe the tests are better now.”
“Look, Noah—”
“I got to know you this summer,” he said, leaning forward. “No missed spots, you always said, no rushed jobs. Remember? You hate things that aren’t done right.”
She sat back, surprised. She would have sworn he hadn’t listened to her. “Your dad won’t agree to this, you know. Why would he? Guilty people don’t want their DNA tested.”
“If he doesn’t agree to the test then I’ll have an answer, won’t I?”
Winona felt a headache start behind her eyes. These were dangerous waters suddenly. “Your mom and I have . . . history with your father . . .”
“Please, Aunt Winona,” he said. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. If you tell me it’s nothing, I’ll believe you. I just want you to tell me if a new test would give him a chance.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?”