looking for anything that might get that goddamn rapist off the hook, but you never bothered to
talk to the victim’s family.”
“Actually,” Christina interjected, “I did contact Ms. Cooper’s family almost immediately after
we took the case. I spoke to her mother; her sister declined to be interviewed.” She paused. “I
was told that Veronica was raised in DC by her mother—that her parents were divorced and her
father lived on the other coast and hadn’t seen her for years.”
“What the hell difference does that make?” He glared at Christina, bitter and angry. Ben
not-so-subtly moved her wineglass to the opposite side of the table. “She was still my little
girl.”
Ben tried to sound comforting. “Sir, I’ve never had children myself, but I can only imagine
how devastating it must be to lose one.”
“Don’t give me that fake sympathetic bullshit. I won’t take it from the man who’s defending my
little Ronnie’s killer.”
“Sir, you don’t know that.”
“The hell I don’t. Everyone in the country knows it.”
“If I’ve learned anything in my years of practice, it’s that appearances can be
deceiving.”
“Don’t try to bullshit me. Don’t you dare try to bullshit me. You think I don’t know why that
monster hired you, Mr. Fancy High-Dollar Lawyer?”
Christina stifled a guffaw.
“You think I don’t know what goes on in courtrooms? Listen to me, buddy. I know the way the
world works. I’ve watched Court TV.”
“I can understand your anger, sir. But I have to think that, deep down in your heart, you
don’t want revenge. You want to know the truth.”
“I know the truth!” he bellowed, more than loud enough to attract the attention of the guests
at the three other tables in the room, not to mention their waiter and the maître d’. Both were
hovering on the fringe of the George II room, unsure how to handle the disturbance. “I know that
goddamn rapist killed my little girl!”
“Look,” Ben said. He was starting to lose some patience himself. He’d come here to plot
strategy, not to deal with importunate relatives of the deceased. “I’m sure you didn’t like what
you saw in the video, but there is no evidence that their relationship was not consensual. To the
contrary, it was obvious from her attire and manner and language that she was welcoming sex. She
just didn’t—”
“You filthy pervert!” He lunged. Ben dove out of his chair. Cooper narrowly missed him,
smashing the wicker chair, then crashing to the floor.
That was more than enough opening for the maître d’ to intervene, assisted by two large men
who were either bouncers or the burliest guys this classy joint could find on the premises. They
laid their hands firmly on Cooper’s shoulders, raised him to his feet, and dragged him away. He
was dazed, but not so much that he couldn’t speak. “My little girl would never do that for
anyone. He must’ve forced her to dress like that. Must’ve had some kind of hold on her. She would
never act that way. Never!”
He continued ranting, all the way through the George III and the George Washington rooms,
until happily Ben could hear him no more.
“Think he represents the viewpoint of the general populace,” Ben asked, “or just those
immediately related to the victim?”
“Let’s hope the latter,” Christina said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just glad he didn’t meet us in a dark alley somewhere. Which would’ve been the
logical thing to do,” he added, pausing thoughtfully, “if his goal really had been to hurt
me.”
The inside of the escort service was disappointingly bland—sparse and functional. Where was
the red wallpaper, the overstuffed sofa, the piano player with a garter around his upper arm?
Bordellos just weren’t what they used to be. Or weren’t what they used to be in John Wayne
movies, at any rate. Lucille’s room was equally inadequate—no lace, no vibrating or rotating
talk to the victim’s family.”
“Actually,” Christina interjected, “I did contact Ms. Cooper’s family almost immediately after
we took the case. I spoke to her mother; her sister declined to be interviewed.” She paused. “I
was told that Veronica was raised in DC by her mother—that her parents were divorced and her
father lived on the other coast and hadn’t seen her for years.”
“What the hell difference does that make?” He glared at Christina, bitter and angry. Ben
not-so-subtly moved her wineglass to the opposite side of the table. “She was still my little
girl.”
Ben tried to sound comforting. “Sir, I’ve never had children myself, but I can only imagine
how devastating it must be to lose one.”
“Don’t give me that fake sympathetic bullshit. I won’t take it from the man who’s defending my
little Ronnie’s killer.”
“Sir, you don’t know that.”
“The hell I don’t. Everyone in the country knows it.”
“If I’ve learned anything in my years of practice, it’s that appearances can be
deceiving.”
“Don’t try to bullshit me. Don’t you dare try to bullshit me. You think I don’t know why that
monster hired you, Mr. Fancy High-Dollar Lawyer?”
Christina stifled a guffaw.
“You think I don’t know what goes on in courtrooms? Listen to me, buddy. I know the way the
world works. I’ve watched Court TV.”
“I can understand your anger, sir. But I have to think that, deep down in your heart, you
don’t want revenge. You want to know the truth.”
“I know the truth!” he bellowed, more than loud enough to attract the attention of the guests
at the three other tables in the room, not to mention their waiter and the maître d’. Both were
hovering on the fringe of the George II room, unsure how to handle the disturbance. “I know that
goddamn rapist killed my little girl!”
“Look,” Ben said. He was starting to lose some patience himself. He’d come here to plot
strategy, not to deal with importunate relatives of the deceased. “I’m sure you didn’t like what
you saw in the video, but there is no evidence that their relationship was not consensual. To the
contrary, it was obvious from her attire and manner and language that she was welcoming sex. She
just didn’t—”
“You filthy pervert!” He lunged. Ben dove out of his chair. Cooper narrowly missed him,
smashing the wicker chair, then crashing to the floor.
That was more than enough opening for the maître d’ to intervene, assisted by two large men
who were either bouncers or the burliest guys this classy joint could find on the premises. They
laid their hands firmly on Cooper’s shoulders, raised him to his feet, and dragged him away. He
was dazed, but not so much that he couldn’t speak. “My little girl would never do that for
anyone. He must’ve forced her to dress like that. Must’ve had some kind of hold on her. She would
never act that way. Never!”
He continued ranting, all the way through the George III and the George Washington rooms,
until happily Ben could hear him no more.
“Think he represents the viewpoint of the general populace,” Ben asked, “or just those
immediately related to the victim?”
“Let’s hope the latter,” Christina said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just glad he didn’t meet us in a dark alley somewhere. Which would’ve been the
logical thing to do,” he added, pausing thoughtfully, “if his goal really had been to hurt
me.”
The inside of the escort service was disappointingly bland—sparse and functional. Where was
the red wallpaper, the overstuffed sofa, the piano player with a garter around his upper arm?
Bordellos just weren’t what they used to be. Or weren’t what they used to be in John Wayne
movies, at any rate. Lucille’s room was equally inadequate—no lace, no vibrating or rotating
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