surgery.”
“So I see from her obituary. Remember, Alex, that the brain, the spine, and even the eye are part of the central nervous system. That’s why there’s so much overlap among some of these specialties—psychiatry, ophthalmology, and orthopedics. We’ll give Mrs. Forester enough pains, tics, and twitches to keep the whole crew looking her over until I get back to town on Monday. Will that help?”
“Thanks, David. Mercer’s calling to get Mo on board and I’ll connect her to you as soon as she agrees.
“So now that I’m done with business may I ask who’s your traveling companion?”
“I’ll introduce you when we get back. Renee Simmons—she’s a sex therapist. I think you’ll really like her.”
I had the feeling that our Sunday evening60 Minutes viewing session and cocktail hour was about to expand to a threesome. “Was she the slim brunette with the perfect smile and great legs who was waiting for you at the bar at Lumi last Tuesday?” I had been on my way out the door of one of my favorite Italian restaurants one night last week when David had whipped past me on his way to claim a late reservation.
“That’s the one. Between her business and yours, you can probably mop up a few of the dysfunctionals around town.”
“I look forward to it. I’m sure I’ll speak with you again before the end of the day.”
By the time I hung up the phone and threw out the empty coffee cups, Marisa Bourgis and Catherine Dashfer had walked into the office. Both were longtime members of the unit as well as my pals. Like Sarah, they were a few years younger than I. Each was married and the mother of a toddler, and all three balanced their personal and professional lives with admirable form and boundless reserves of humor.
“So much for our plans for lunch at Forlini’s today,” Marisa said, pointing to the headline in the paper on top of my desk.
“It may be the only virtue of a high-profile case, but it’s a big one. Immediate weight loss, guaranteed.” Meals on the fly, liquid diets of coffee and soda, rattled nerves, and more running around than anybody needs in a day—stretching into weeks or months. “Perhaps a mental health shopping day at the end of all this, ladies, when I am hoping to be back to my law school size six. Takers?”
“That’s a deal. Need help with anything in the meantime? Marisa and I can help Sarah with your overflow while you get started on the murder.”
“Great offer. I’ll go through my book this morning. There may be a couple of interviews you could do for me next week. Of course, if we don’t pick up any leads by the time the weekend is over, it’ll all be in the hands of the task force, not mine.”
Laura Wilkie, my secretary of many years, peered into the room, said good morning, and told us that Phil Weinberg needed to see me before he went up to court. Urgent.
Marisa, Catherine, and I exchanged smirks as Weinberg “the whiner,” our alias for him, skulked into my office. Nothing was easy with Phil. Although he was a good lawyer and compassionate advocate, he needed more hand-holding to get through a trial than most victims ever did.
Phil was less than pleased to see that I had company. He knew we’d be talking about him the minute he left the room but he reluctantly told me the problem.
“You won’t believe what happened with one of the jurors yesterday afternoon.”
“Try me.” There was no end to the curious stories my colleagues could tell about Manhattan veniremen and -women.
“I’m in the middle of the direct case in the Tuggs trial.”
Sarah and I had spent the better part of Monday and Tuesday taking turns watching Phil in the courtroom. We did it at most proceedings with the junior members of the unit, so that we could give detailed critiques and advice about technique and style to improve the performance of these promising litigators.
I knew the facts of the case well. It was an
“So I see from her obituary. Remember, Alex, that the brain, the spine, and even the eye are part of the central nervous system. That’s why there’s so much overlap among some of these specialties—psychiatry, ophthalmology, and orthopedics. We’ll give Mrs. Forester enough pains, tics, and twitches to keep the whole crew looking her over until I get back to town on Monday. Will that help?”
“Thanks, David. Mercer’s calling to get Mo on board and I’ll connect her to you as soon as she agrees.
“So now that I’m done with business may I ask who’s your traveling companion?”
“I’ll introduce you when we get back. Renee Simmons—she’s a sex therapist. I think you’ll really like her.”
I had the feeling that our Sunday evening60 Minutes viewing session and cocktail hour was about to expand to a threesome. “Was she the slim brunette with the perfect smile and great legs who was waiting for you at the bar at Lumi last Tuesday?” I had been on my way out the door of one of my favorite Italian restaurants one night last week when David had whipped past me on his way to claim a late reservation.
“That’s the one. Between her business and yours, you can probably mop up a few of the dysfunctionals around town.”
“I look forward to it. I’m sure I’ll speak with you again before the end of the day.”
By the time I hung up the phone and threw out the empty coffee cups, Marisa Bourgis and Catherine Dashfer had walked into the office. Both were longtime members of the unit as well as my pals. Like Sarah, they were a few years younger than I. Each was married and the mother of a toddler, and all three balanced their personal and professional lives with admirable form and boundless reserves of humor.
“So much for our plans for lunch at Forlini’s today,” Marisa said, pointing to the headline in the paper on top of my desk.
“It may be the only virtue of a high-profile case, but it’s a big one. Immediate weight loss, guaranteed.” Meals on the fly, liquid diets of coffee and soda, rattled nerves, and more running around than anybody needs in a day—stretching into weeks or months. “Perhaps a mental health shopping day at the end of all this, ladies, when I am hoping to be back to my law school size six. Takers?”
“That’s a deal. Need help with anything in the meantime? Marisa and I can help Sarah with your overflow while you get started on the murder.”
“Great offer. I’ll go through my book this morning. There may be a couple of interviews you could do for me next week. Of course, if we don’t pick up any leads by the time the weekend is over, it’ll all be in the hands of the task force, not mine.”
Laura Wilkie, my secretary of many years, peered into the room, said good morning, and told us that Phil Weinberg needed to see me before he went up to court. Urgent.
Marisa, Catherine, and I exchanged smirks as Weinberg “the whiner,” our alias for him, skulked into my office. Nothing was easy with Phil. Although he was a good lawyer and compassionate advocate, he needed more hand-holding to get through a trial than most victims ever did.
Phil was less than pleased to see that I had company. He knew we’d be talking about him the minute he left the room but he reluctantly told me the problem.
“You won’t believe what happened with one of the jurors yesterday afternoon.”
“Try me.” There was no end to the curious stories my colleagues could tell about Manhattan veniremen and -women.
“I’m in the middle of the direct case in the Tuggs trial.”
Sarah and I had spent the better part of Monday and Tuesday taking turns watching Phil in the courtroom. We did it at most proceedings with the junior members of the unit, so that we could give detailed critiques and advice about technique and style to improve the performance of these promising litigators.
I knew the facts of the case well. It was an
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