And Justice There Is None

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Many thanks are due, as always, to the Every Other Tuesday Night Writer's Group: Steve Copling, Dale Denton, Jim Evans, Diane Sullivan Hale, John Hardie, Viqui Litman, Rickey Thornton, and Milan Vesely, with added appreciation to Diane Sullivan Hale, RN, BSN, for her advice on medical matters. Thanks as well to Carol Chase and Marcia Talley for their inspiration and input; to Connie Munro for her astute copy edit; to Glen Edelstein for the book design; to Jamie Warren Youll for the jacket design; to Kate Miciak, my editor at Bantam, for simply being the best; and to Nancy Yost, my agent, for her long-standing patience and support.

He ran, as so many others ran, the black anorak protecting him from the mist, the reflective patches on his trainers gleaming as he passed under the street lamps. The pattern of the streets was etched in his mind, a living map. Down Portobello, under the motorway, past Oxford Gardens, once the site of Portobello Farm, then back up Ladbroke Grove, past the video shop and the Afro-Caribbean hairdressers, then into Lansdown Road with its whitewashed Victorian austerity. He imagined that the street's curve paralleled the track of the old racecourse that had crowned Notting Hill a hundred and fifty years ago; that his feet fell where the horses' hooves had struck.

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