go shopping.”
“Well, we are in DC. After the case is over . . .”
“Maybe if we win. And you actually collect a fee this time.”
“Christina . . .”
“Just joshing, partner.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You know I care
nothing about monetary gain. Why else would I work with you?”
“I think our only danger is that Glancy will spend too much on associated counselors. How many
people are technically a part of this defense team now?”
“I think we’re up to ten, counting the local counsel that have been assisting on the paperwork
and document review, the DNA expert, and the appeals expert.”
“Both of whom are totally unnecessary at this time.”
She nodded her agreement. “My theory is that Glancy wants to have more lawyers than O. J. and
Jacko combined. It’s an ego thing. And if he can afford it . . .”
“Whatever. Just so they’re invisible in the courtroom. I don’t want the jury to get the idea
Glancy is trying to buy his way out of trouble.” He glanced at the list in the center of the
table. “Did you want some wine?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Does this mean the Four Georges doesn’t stock chocolate milk?”
“
Très
amusing. I just thought you might like a little stress-reducer.” And as a
matter of fact, yes, the waiter had whispered to him earlier that there was no chocolate milk,
but she didn’t need to hear that. What she needed to hear . . . well, he knew perfectly well what
she needed to hear. So why wasn’t he able to say it? “You know, Christina, I really . . . really
appreciate your help on this case. You were invaluable in the courtroom today.”
“That’s what partners do.”
“Read jurors’ minds?”
“They complete each other. Make a whole greater than the sum of the parts. That’s true for . .
. all kinds of partners.”
Well that was unsubtle, even for Christina, the Queen of Blunt. Ben cleared his throat and
fiddled nervously with the menu until the waiter blessedly reappeared.
The menu selections were extremely rarefied for Ben’s taste, but he managed to order something
he was pretty sure involved beef; Christina had the grilled salmon. After they’d given their
order and the waiter poured the Beaujolais, Ben pitched various approaches to his opening
statement to Christina. She didn’t like any of them. Too defensive, too exculpatory. The trick
was to remind the jurors that this was about murder, not sex; to direct them to disregard the
video without appearing to make excuses for it. “If I were you,” she advised, “I’d just come
straight out the first time I addressed them and say—”
“Excuse me.”
Ben looked up and saw a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee standing next to the
table beneath one of the pseudo-palm trees. He was staring at Ben with a crazed, walleyed
expression. Ben didn’t know who the man was, but he was certain he’d seen him in the courtroom
earlier. “Yes?”
“Are you two the lawyers defending Thomas Glancy?”
“We’re the lead trial counsel, yes.” Ben pondered. Reporter? Police officer? Autograph hound?
“We’re working in affiliation with a number of—”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Uh, I’m . . . sorry, no.”
“Maybe this will refresh your memory?” Before Ben had a chance to react, the man had grabbed
Ben’s wineglass and flung the drink into his face.
Ben reared backward, blinking, wiping the stinging liquid from his eyes. Great, he thought,
now I’m down to two suits. Christina started to rise, probably planning to slug him, but Ben
waved her back into her seat. The last thing they needed was salacious publicity on the eve of
trial.
“So,” Ben said, looking up at him, “you’re . . . my dry cleaner?”
“I’m Darrin Cooper—Veronica Cooper’s father, you son of a bitch.” He spoke with such venom
that spittle flew from his teeth. “Isn’t it interesting that you didn’t know? You’ve spent months
“Well, we are in DC. After the case is over . . .”
“Maybe if we win. And you actually collect a fee this time.”
“Christina . . .”
“Just joshing, partner.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You know I care
nothing about monetary gain. Why else would I work with you?”
“I think our only danger is that Glancy will spend too much on associated counselors. How many
people are technically a part of this defense team now?”
“I think we’re up to ten, counting the local counsel that have been assisting on the paperwork
and document review, the DNA expert, and the appeals expert.”
“Both of whom are totally unnecessary at this time.”
She nodded her agreement. “My theory is that Glancy wants to have more lawyers than O. J. and
Jacko combined. It’s an ego thing. And if he can afford it . . .”
“Whatever. Just so they’re invisible in the courtroom. I don’t want the jury to get the idea
Glancy is trying to buy his way out of trouble.” He glanced at the list in the center of the
table. “Did you want some wine?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Does this mean the Four Georges doesn’t stock chocolate milk?”
“
Très
amusing. I just thought you might like a little stress-reducer.” And as a
matter of fact, yes, the waiter had whispered to him earlier that there was no chocolate milk,
but she didn’t need to hear that. What she needed to hear . . . well, he knew perfectly well what
she needed to hear. So why wasn’t he able to say it? “You know, Christina, I really . . . really
appreciate your help on this case. You were invaluable in the courtroom today.”
“That’s what partners do.”
“Read jurors’ minds?”
“They complete each other. Make a whole greater than the sum of the parts. That’s true for . .
. all kinds of partners.”
Well that was unsubtle, even for Christina, the Queen of Blunt. Ben cleared his throat and
fiddled nervously with the menu until the waiter blessedly reappeared.
The menu selections were extremely rarefied for Ben’s taste, but he managed to order something
he was pretty sure involved beef; Christina had the grilled salmon. After they’d given their
order and the waiter poured the Beaujolais, Ben pitched various approaches to his opening
statement to Christina. She didn’t like any of them. Too defensive, too exculpatory. The trick
was to remind the jurors that this was about murder, not sex; to direct them to disregard the
video without appearing to make excuses for it. “If I were you,” she advised, “I’d just come
straight out the first time I addressed them and say—”
“Excuse me.”
Ben looked up and saw a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee standing next to the
table beneath one of the pseudo-palm trees. He was staring at Ben with a crazed, walleyed
expression. Ben didn’t know who the man was, but he was certain he’d seen him in the courtroom
earlier. “Yes?”
“Are you two the lawyers defending Thomas Glancy?”
“We’re the lead trial counsel, yes.” Ben pondered. Reporter? Police officer? Autograph hound?
“We’re working in affiliation with a number of—”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Uh, I’m . . . sorry, no.”
“Maybe this will refresh your memory?” Before Ben had a chance to react, the man had grabbed
Ben’s wineglass and flung the drink into his face.
Ben reared backward, blinking, wiping the stinging liquid from his eyes. Great, he thought,
now I’m down to two suits. Christina started to rise, probably planning to slug him, but Ben
waved her back into her seat. The last thing they needed was salacious publicity on the eve of
trial.
“So,” Ben said, looking up at him, “you’re . . . my dry cleaner?”
“I’m Darrin Cooper—Veronica Cooper’s father, you son of a bitch.” He spoke with such venom
that spittle flew from his teeth. “Isn’t it interesting that you didn’t know? You’ve spent months
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