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didn’t know beforehand, but you’d have defended Cretella if he were charged with the murder.” I tried to say the words dispassionately, but a hint of disapproval must have been there, because Matt suddenly exploded. He banged his open hand on the table with a force that had the glasses jumping and the waiter running over with a look of alarm on his face.
    â€œGoddamn right I’d have defended him,” Matt said. “And that’s what Lazarus wanted to prevent. That’s why he wants me indicted and convicted. Because as long as I’ve been Frankie Cretella’s lawyer, he hasn’t been able to convict the man of anything. But with me defending myself, Cretella has to get new counsel, and Lazarus finally has a chance to get the conviction he needs for his political career.”
    I gave the agitated waiter a conciliatory smile and waved him away. “I’d say you had a pretty good opinion of your own legal talents,” I remarked to my companion. “Of course,” I amended with an air of judicious consideration, “in this case, your assessment is pretty close to the truth. You have kept Cretella out of jail for a long time. But is that necessarily a good thing for the rest of society?”
    â€œMy job is to defend my client,” Matt replied. “Society has another lawyer.”
    â€œBut Cretella is a—” I broke off as my mind ran through the various terms that could be used to designate a man reputed to be the new head of the Scaniello crime family.
    â€œThat’s exactly my point,” Matt said. He settled back in his chair like a man victorious in argument. “Because of Frankie’s reputation, you and everyone else in this city are willing to believe he clipped Nunzie. But we do not convict people of murder in this country solely on the basis of reputation.”
    It came to me that reputation was at the heart of the case against Matt. He was the aging gunslinger all the up-and-coming shootists wanted to best. He was the bull moose whose magnificent antlers the hunters wanted gracing their walls. Convicting him would make Nick Lazarus a famous man, a man who might rise politically the same way Tom Dewey and Rudy Giuliani had risen.
    I’d been spooning tiramisu into my mouth as I listened to Riordan tell the story. Now I put the tiny silver spoon down with a clatter as I realized what else I was doing: writing my summation in the case of United States of America v. Matthew Daniel Riordan .
    My mental checklist was forgotten; I no longer remembered how many check marks were in each of my columns. It no longer mattered.
    I had taken the case.
    To a Brooklyn lawyer, a trip to lower Manhattan was like a shopping spree on upper Fifth Avenue. The courthouses were more imposing; the people on the crowded streets were more important and better dressed. And the prices were higher.
    I passed the Municipal Building—a huge wedding cake on the outside, a rat’s maze on the inside—and kept going along Centre Street. If I kept moving, I’d come to 100 Centre, the huge monolith that housed the supreme court and criminal courts, as well as the infamous Tombs prison. If I stopped a little short of that, I’d be at 60 Centre, the picturesque old civil courthouse they always show on television when they want to display New York jurisprudence.
    But today I was headed for the big time, for the federal courthouse that was home to the Southern District of New York, the gold-topped building that sat in Foley Square like a duchess. There were police barricades on the sidewalk in front of the long stone staircase that led up to the door; reporters with minicams milled around, smoking and waiting. Waiting for what? I wondered; I had a quick frisson of anticipation as I realized they might recognize me as Riordan’s lawyer and pepper me with questions I wasn’t ready to answer. But then I laughed at myself; they weren’t here for