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hurrying to their offices, cappucinos and café lattes in hand (why anyone would spend that much money for a cup of coffee is beyond my comprehension), incongruous white Nikes on their feet beneath suits and dresses, a spring in their step as they mounted another day and week in their careers. But it struck me as I stepped out of the Town Car that as busy as Government Center was that morning, everything seemed more civil than in New York. There was a certain unstated order to it, as opposed to the usual mayhem accompanying New York’s pedestrian’s rush hour.
    Malcolm’s office was located in one of the district’s skyscrapers, tall for Boston but not by New York standards. The elevator ascended quickly to the twenty-third floor where I easily found the suite, identified by an oversized brass nameplate. I opened the door, stepped into the reception area, and approached a desk. Seated behind it was an attractive middle-aged woman. The moment she saw me she jumped up, came around the desk, and extended her hand. “Mrs. Fletcher? I’m Linda, Mr. McLoon’s receptionist. We’ve been waiting for you.”
    “Am I late?”
    “Oh, no,” she replied, her smile lighting up the room. “I’m personally excited about meeting you. When Mr. McLoon said you’d agreed to join the defense team, I was—well, I was tickled. I’m a fan.”
    “That’s very kind.”
    “Are you working on a new book?”
    “Well, not exactly. I—”
    “LINDA!!!”
    The bellowing male voice rattled the speaker on her desk.
    “LINDA!!! Is Mrs. Fletcher here yet?”
    “Oh, my,” she said, scurrying behind her desk, pushing a button on the intercom, and saying, “She’s here, Mr. McLoon.”
    “Well, send her in, for gracious sake.”
    Linda managed a small smile. “Follow me,” she said.
    We walked down a long, narrow hallway to the last door on the left. Linda knocked. “Come in,” Malcolm’s voice said through the heavy wooden door.
    Malcolm was perched on the edge of his desk, his large head in a cloud of dense smoke from a long, fat black cigar clenched between his teeth. He wore a rumpled white shirt, a red-and-yellow bow tie, wrinkled gray pants, black sneakers with white socks peeking over the tops, and a green-and-blue tartan plaid jacket that made me think of my dear friend and quintessential Scotsman, Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland, who I immediately wished was there at my side.
    “Our guest of honah has arrived,” Malcolm said, coming off the desk with arms open wide, fly wide open. He wrapped me in an all-encompassing, sweaty embrace, the cigar still billowing smoke. Would the smell ever come out of my suit? I wondered.
    “Guest of honor?” I said, disengaging. “I’m the one who’s honored.”
    “Nonsense. Sit down, Jessica. I want to introduce you to some good people.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. I nodded at the others in the room, who sat closely grouped on chairs in one comer, and took the seat Malcolm had indicated.
    “LINDA!!!” McLoon shouted into his intercom. “We need more coffee.” To me: “Still prefer tea?”
    “Yes. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Tea for Mrs. Fletcher. And rustle up some donuts. Jelly ones. Where the hell are my cigars? Did you hide ’em again?”
    “No, sir. You put them—”
    “I know, I know.” He waddled to a closet and pulled a box of cigars down from a shelf. With the one he’d been smoking still smoldering in the ashtray, he lighted another.
    I took advantage of the lull to take in his office. Obviously, an interior decorator’s hand hadn’t been utilized. The room was pure Malcolm in all his brilliant disarray. A hodgepodge of not-so-interesting art of the sort bought at flea markets to match the color of furniture hung crookedly on the walls, along with photographs of Malcolm with celebrities and politicians, also crooked—the pictures, not necessarily the politicians. A burnt-orange shag rug, decorated with multiple burn holes and