Fancy Dancer by Fern Michaels Page B

bothered him. He was just being nervous, he told himself, because he knew that if Spindler agreed to see him, the judge would smack him down hard. First rule: never argue with a judge unless you want contempt charges filed against you. The other unwritten rule was you sucked it up, you smiled, then you headed to the men’s room to lick your wounds. Well, that damn well isn’t going to happen. Not today.
    Alex opened the door to the clerk’s office to see a dour-looking woman with glasses perched on the end of her nose. Just eight o’clock, and she already looked like she’d eaten two lawyers for breakfast and spit out two others. She looked up at Alex and said, “Speak!”
    “I’m Alex Rosario. I represent Jake St. Cloud. I need to speak with Judge Spindler as soon as possible. It’s important, or I wouldn’t be here,” Alex said as forcefully as he could.
    Maybe it was the name St. Cloud, maybe it was his own good looks, or maybe the dragon in the clerk had a soft spot, because she eyed him a moment longer, told him to sit down, and said she’d be right back. Before she opened the door, she asked, “How much time do you need, Mr. Rosario, assuming Judge Spindler has some free time?”
    Alex almost swallowed his tongue. “Ten minutes! Five if I talk fast.”
    A small smile stretched across the dragon’s face. “Five might work.”
    Alex felt as though there were an army of ants crawling around inside his stomach as he waited for the clerk to return. When she did, he was relieved to see the smile on her face. “The judge said he can see you right now for five minutes. When he says five minutes , he means five minutes. Do you understand that, Mr. Rosario?”
    “I do, ma’am, and thank you.” This was just too damn easy. It had to be the St. Cloud name. Five minutes. Crap, it will take that long to get my tongue to work.
    “I’m waiting, Mr. Rosario,” the clerk snapped. “Follow me, please. And let me warn you ahead of time, the judge does not appear to be in a good mood this morning.”
    “Neither am I, ma’am,” Alex said boldly. “Neither am I.” He repeated the words more for himself than the court clerk.

Chapter 8
    I t was the first time Alex had ever been in a judge’s chambers. He looked around and admitted to himself that he was impressed: dark paneling on the walls polished to a high sheen; the one-of-a-kind coatrack where the judge’s robe hung on a padded hanger; pictures on the wall, of the judge and the governor, the judge and the vice president of the United States, the judge and the secretary of state, the judge and everyone and anyone. On the shelf behind his massive desk were pictures that appeared to be of family, all in the same kind of ornate frames. Two easy chairs sat nestled across the room, with a small table in front of them, legal magazines stacked neatly upon it. A lush green ficus tree looked so perfect as it reached toward the overhead fluorescent lighting that Alex wondered if it was real. He was tempted to pinch one of the leaves but then remembered why he was here.
    “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Judge Spindler. I appreciate it.”
    Spindler leaned across the antique-looking desk, and asked, “What can I do for you so early in the morning, Counselor?”
    Alex eyed Spindler and wondered why he wasn’t feeling intimidated. He looked just like any other old, cranky judge who should have retired years ago. The court system needed new blood, younger blood. If he didn’t know it before, he knew it now for sure. It wasn’t just his opinion, either. He’d heard his colleagues moaning and groaning about the ancient old men who ran the courthouse.
    The judge looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept. Then again, maybe it was the harsh overhead lighting. “I’m here about a client of mine, Jake St. Cloud. I want someone to tell me why his probation at the Dancer Foundation was terminated, and I also want to know where he is. As the attorney of record and