A Criminal Defense

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Since matter is neither created nor destroyed, in one way or another the world isn’t done with Mark Hamlin.

The words had come to Harlan Donnally as he disconnected the call that wrenched him from sleep at four in the morning. And others had followed as he walked from his bungalow near San Francisco’s Ocean Beach through whorls of fog and mist toward his street-lit truck.

Under ideal conditions, bodies in motion remain in motion and bodies at rest remain at rest.

But it was only now, gazing at the criminal defense attorney hanging by his neck from the Fort Point lighthouse, that Donnally realized these thoughts were reverberations from the last case he’d cleared as a homicide detective a decade earlier. They’d echoed not only in his unease about the uncertainties and entanglements awaiting him in the shadow of the south anchorage of the Golden Gate Bridge, but in his musings about the mechanics of life and death that had accompanied him on the drive through the wooded Presidio to the redbrick garrison and during his three-story climb to the top.

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