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seemed to be in a generally good mood that day, overlooking the minor gaffes and excesses of the attorneys appearing before him.
    His mood changed, however, when he reached the motion immediately before Ben’s. A flock of dour defense lawyers and bar luminaries stood up when the case was called, and crowded around the right-hand counsel table. A cluster of high-profile plaintiff’s attorneys coalesced around the left table. After they had all stated their names for the record, Bill Corcoran, a well-known plaintiff’s attorney, stepped up to the podium.
    Judge Harris held up his hand. “I’ve read the papers and the legal authorities cited by both sides, Mr. Corcoran, and there’s no need for argument. Your petition is denied.”
    Murmurs arose from both tables, and the defense lawyers started to get up, but Corcoran was not so easily dissuaded. “Your Honor, if I might be heard on this matter. This is an awkward issue that—”
    “It is awkward—for you,” interrupted the judge. “That’s why you lost. Now, do you have anything to add to what’s in your papers?”
    “We have several witnesses in the courtroom, Your Honor, who are ready to testify—”
    “To exactly what is in their affidavits, correct?” interrupted the judge again, his irritation showing in his voice.
    There was a history here. Corcoran and Harris detested each other. They had clashed before Harris took the bench, and Corcoran had contributed heavily to Harris’s opponents each time he had been up for reelection. Making matters worse, Corcoran was not used to getting slapped down by judges and did not take it well. “I am entitled to make my record, Judge, and I could do so very quickly if I could speak without interruption.”
    Judge Harris glared at him. “Mr. Corcoran, your record is adequately made by your papers. Hearing you and your witnesses regurgitate what I have already read will do nothing but . . .”
    Ben was distracted by a nudge in his side, followed by whispering in his ear.
    He turned to Ivanovsky and whispered back, “Write me a note, we’re—”
    “Mr. Corbin,” the judge said loudly from the bench, “you know better than to talk in my courtroom!”
    Ben’s face turned hot and he felt like a fourth grader caught whispering in class. “Yes, Your Honor. I apologize.”
    The judge turned back to lecturing Corcoran. “A TRO is an extraordinary remedy. I do not grant them lightly or often, and I never grant them unless I am convinced they are absolutely necessary. This is a commercial dispute, Mr. Corcoran, and I am not going to impose a TRO simply because your client believes the defendants have violated their contractual duties. I have seen very few cases in which a contractual breach could not be remedied by an adequate application of money, and you have not convinced me that this is such a case. Now, I have a courtroom to run, so please step away from the podium so the next case can be called.”
    Corcoran did not move. “If the Court would just grant me five minutes to—”
    Judge Harris’s face darkened and the veins in his neck bulged. “If you do not step away from that podium by the count of three, there is a gentleman here with a pistol”—he pointed to the bailiff—“who will take you to jail. One . . . two . . .”
    Corcoran reluctantly stepped back from the podium, his teeth clenched with suppressed fury. Judge Harris stood, and so did everyone else in the courtroom. “We’ll take a five-minute recess and then finish the call.”
    Terrific, Ben thought as the judge walked out. Now he’s in a bad mood, irritated with me, and unlikely to grant a TRO in a contract case. At least this should be uncontested. After the judge left, Ben turned to his client. “I know I never told you this, but never, ever talk when court is in session. Now, what did you want to tell me?”
    “He is here. Nicki Zinoviev. He walked in three minutes ago, and he sits over there.” He nodded toward the bench