At 10:35 PM, the moment that Johann Palmstroem was shot, Vincent Stein was on a plane returning from Indianapolis. Earlier in the day, he had been visiting a federal penitentiary; under less extraordinary circumstances, this would have provided an airtight alibi.

Henry's attorney, Malcolm Fell, accompanied Vincent to this meeting with his brother. The news was dire enough to overwhelm even Fell's devil-may-care optimism, and a somber mood prevailed as they sat in the waiting room. Once they passed through the next set of security gates, they'd be under close supervision at all times.

"I know my brother can be a difficult client," said Vincent, fiddling with his tie clip as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. While he looked presentable enough, his dress shirt was just a little too tight, his cuffs a little too long, and his nails as ragged as ever. "But I appreciate everything you've done. Ah, tried to do, at least."

Malcolm chuckled in his confident, reassuring baritone. "I don't think the Court of Appeals gives points for effort, but thanks anyway." His voice resumed a grave tone as he added, "Sorry, kid."

'Kid.' Vincent had never known what to make of that. At one time, Malcolm's readiness to play the surrogate big brother had been welcome. He was everything that Vincent wasn't: tall and broad-shouldered, with his tailored lines, slicked-back hair, and easy smile. But as Vincent grew older, it occurred to him that some might consider such familiarity with a client's younger brother just a shade unprofessional. 

His reflections were interrupted by a uniformed officer addressing them both. "He's ready. Follow me, and stay close." He turned to Vincent. "Remember to limit any physical contact to the beginning and the end of the visit, and keep it brief," he said significantly. "Don't want a repeat of last time."

"It won't happen again," volunteered Malcolm. "We promise. Kid just got a little emotional, that's all."

Vincent nodded, abashed, as they proceeded to the visiting room. The penitentiary's innards were as unwelcoming as its concrete exterior. He winced at the harsh light that glared off the steel doors into his sensitive eyes. How could Henry tolerate this place?

They sat in the visiting room for a few minutes in quiet anticipation. Vincent began to gnaw at his nails, only to stop when he realized what he was doing. A moment later, Henry was led in handcuffed by the officer, who gave Vincent a nod of tacit approval. Jumping up from his chair and leaping forward in one smooth motion, Vincent pulled his brother into a tight hug.

Once they had taken their seats, Malcolm delivered the news of the failed reprieve. Henry was unmoved.

"What happens, happens," he said. "I'm sure you did your best."

"You know, in all the years I've known you," said Malcolm, "those are the kindest words you've ever said to me."

Oh, no, thought Vincent. They're at it again.

Henry looked down, unwilling to meet Malcolm's eyes. "We don't have to pretend. If you don't believe my confession, nothing I say will change that."

Malcolm's jaw tensed uncharacteristically for a second, as if he wanted to speak through gritted teeth, but wouldn't give Henry the satisfaction. "If I believed you, I wouldn't even be here. But no, my friend, mi amigo, you did not chop up Alice Park while her children waited right across the hall. You did not dissolve her in a handy vat of carbon-cleaning solution, which somehow, by some diabolical miracle, worked a hundred times faster than it should have."

The lawyer looked at Henry as if he were peering over the rims of his glasses, which was quite a trick, as he wasn't wearing any. "I think you helped Dr. Park fake her death, and you'll cover for her all the way to the injection chamber."

"Your feelings for Alice are clouding your judgment. But whatever you think," said Henry, "you won't have to fret over it much longer. That was my last appeal."

A silence hung in the air, unanswered and uncomfortable, until Vincent spoke up. "Then there's no other way to save you. I'll run the experiment."

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Henry seemed to understand what his brother meant, but it was news to Malcolm. "Experiment?" said Malcolm, "What experiment?"

"There's a way to prove Henry's innocence."

Henry shut his eyes meditatively, but the facade was cracking. "Stop. Don't even bring it up. Fell can't know."

"Why not? What harm could come of it now?"

Now it was Henry's turn to be discomfited, his air of serene resignation giving way to open concern. "A lot. But Johann wouldn't let you, and he shouldn't. You could get... someone killed. There'd be blood on your hands."

Finally raising his head, Henry looked his brother in the eye beseechingly. "Let it go, Vincent. It's in God's hands now."

The sight flooded Malcolm's heart with pity. The two brothers were eleven years apart in age, and yet the gap now seemed still wider, as if Henry were an old man, tired of life, and Vincent a small child looking up to him with all the hope of innocence. But when Vincent hesitated, clearly about to back down and yield, that pity turned to frustrated anger.

"Oh, come on, man!" he exclaimed. "You're going to make this about God?"

Yes, Henry had always shown a streak of stubborn self-martyrdom, but he hadn't been so insufferably spiritual about it until the last few years. Death row had transformed Henry's faith from a social nicety to a deadening worldview, one that Malcolm could not abide.

"God's plan isn't what put you here," said Malcolm. "Your confession did. Now, what's this big experiment?"

"Please," said Vincent, trying to keep his voice level. "I want to let Malcolm know. Why'd you agree to be his client if we weren't going to trust him?"

"I just planned to keep an eye on him," replied Henry. "I guess you could say a little mouse told me."

"But why are you acting this way?" Vincent's voice began to crack a little. "Even if you won't trust him, why won't you trust _me_? You keep hinting at risks, but you won't say what they are! Did I do something wrong, Henry?"

"I can't say. You'd take a warning as a suggestion. That's just how it'd have to work out."

Malcolm couldn't make head or tail of the conversation, but damned if that was going to stop him from having an opinion. "Even from a guy on death row," he said, "that sounds just a teensy bit fatalistic, don't you think?"

But Vincent didn't reply, as his thoughts were spinning too rapidly to vocalize. With that last remark, Henry had given away more than he'd intended to.

"You think I'm going to do something wrong," Vincent finally whispered.

"I'd never think that," said Henry.

"You don't want to become the person responsible, just by saying the wrong thing. You're paralyzed."

Henry smiled at this, as if at a sad, private joke. "They also serve who only stand and wait."

"Hey," interjected Malcolm. "I've been doing a lot of that lately! It just reassures me immeasurably that you approve." But the brothers ignored him.

"I'm always happy to talk with you, Vincent. But not about this. Not this close to the end."

For a moment, it seemed as though Malcolm was going to insist on pressing the subject further. Then, seeing the exhaustion in Vincent's eyes, he relented. If he couldn't save Henry, he could at least refrain from ruining the remainder of this visit for him.

And so the two brothers, a decade apart in age, reminisced until time ran out. They thought back on Vincent's early childhood, and how their grandmother had raised him after the accident. How Henry finished his graduate program, moved to the West Coast, and took Vincent off her hands. How Henry had always found time for his little brother, even as he juggled working a full-time engineering job, and how Alice and Johann had helped, becoming almost like a second family to them.

Malcolm also had a few things he could have reminisced about, but he suspected that the story of how he'd fallen for Alice Park at her husband's funeral would probably not have gone over well. Wisely, he held his tongue.

When the visit concluded, Vincent and Henry hugged once more, and both seemed far more at peace. But as the visitors left the penitentiary, it quickly became obvious that, at least on Vincent's end, this calm was only a front.

"We have to act. We have to do it now," said Vincent. "I'm going ahead with the experiment. I'll tell you everything."

"I'm listening," said Malcolm, as he slipped into the driver's seat of their rented Ford Turtletop. But rather than take the passenger side, Vincent retrieved his notes and laptop from the trunk, then sat in the backseat — more room to work. "You have to understand," he said, spreading out his materials, "that revealing our work doesn't just break non-disclosure agreements. Some of it is classified."

"So, up to ten years imprisonment."

"Some of it is beyond classified," clarified Vincent, buckling up for safety. "We could be made to disappear."

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me, a lawyer, that you're about to break federal law. And you're asking me to become an accessory, accomplice, and/or principal in this crime."

"Yes."

"Sure," said Malcolm, pulling out of their parking place. "But before you tell me anything too secret, could you answer just one question?"

"What is it?"

Malcolm turned in his seat to look back at his passenger. "Is Alice alive right now?"

"That... really depends," said Vincent, pausing to choose his words carefully, "on how you define 'alive' and 'right now.'"

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "You know what? Just skip straight to the state secrets."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Let's do some crimes, as the kids say. I'm all in."

He hit the gas, sending them careening down the highway.