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may I approach?” It was Marty Bloom. He was gasping, out of breath.
    â€œMove it, Mr. Bloom. You’re late.”
    â€œI’m moving it as fast as it goes, Your Honor.” Marty Bloom hobbled down the center aisle, his briefcase and coat on one arm, books and papers jammed under the other. His glasses were askew on his face, one shirttail out of his pants. Despite his sparse thatch of kinky gray hair, Bloom was the sheepdog in this show. He dumped his things at his table and went to the bench. Morgenroth leaned down and conferred with him in private for a few minutes. The chihuahua’s squinty expression became progressively more and more skeptical and annoyed.
    The judge looked up then and pointed a bony finger at Tom Augustine. “Approach the bench. This concerns you.”
    Bloom and Morgenroth filled the chief prosecutor in on whatever the hell was going on, and Augustine listened intently, nodding with his hand on his chin. The setter’s posture was erect, head high, a model specimen of his breed. Tozzi was right about that—there was something a little too regal about Augustine. But what the hell, that was the way the guy was brought up. Can’t ditch the silver spoon once you’re born with it. Sure, Augustine was from the right side of the tracks, but he still was an okay guy. You really couldn’t fault him for being high society.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Tozzi whispered.
    Gibbons shrugged. “How the hell do I know?”
    The judge summoned the other defense lawyers to the bench then, all eighteen of them. Eighteen suspicious faces crowded around the little chihuahua and listened. Then the grumbling started. It quickly escalated, with the lawyers in the back shouting out their objections in order to be heard over the others. Morgenroth clamped down fast, banging his gavel repeatedly until there was silence.
    â€œI want all of you in my chambers in ten minutes. Court is dismissed until two o’clock this afternoon.” He pounded his gavel once more, collected his papers, and hopped down off the bench.
    â€œNow what?” Tozzi sounded disgusted.
    â€œGentlemen?” Augustine was back at the railing. “You can go. We won’t be needing you today. I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you sooner.”
    The mongrels growled.
    Augustine shrugged. “Sorry. We had no way of knowing.”
    He was about to turn away when Gibbons reached over and grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “So what was that all about?”
    Augustine looked both ways, then bent forward and whispered. “The shit just hit the fan. Vincent Giordano has decided to turn against his mob pals. He’ll testify for the government in exchange for reduced charges.”
    â€œSounds like good news.”
    â€œCould be very good news. The defense will kick and scream for a couple of days, demand mistrials for their clients, seek injunctions and so forth, but if I know Morgenroth, he won’t go for any of it.” Augustine straightened up and lifted his chin. The setter allowed himself the hint of a grin. “I think we’ve got them right where we want them now—by the balls.”
    Gibbons grinned. “Excellent.”
    â€œI have to run now. Can’t keep the judge waiting.” Augustine returned to the prosecution table to collect his things.
    Gibbons turned to Tozzi. “You hear that? Sounds like these guys are screwed.”
    â€œHuh?”
    Tozzi wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at that Halloran woman again.
    Gibbons crossed his arms and shook his head. Like a fucking book, this guy.
    Gibbons turned around in his seat to tell the others what Augustine had just told him, and suddenly he caught a quick glimpse of his own reflection in the glasses of the guy behindhim. Seeing his image was like the sudden recollection of an old familiar photograph. Bulldog.
    Just then McCleery appeared in his peripheral vision. Gibbons watched