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thing?”
    He put the glasses back on, but not before I caught something in his eyes. Associates generally stop at “Yes, sir.”
    â€œI can. You can’t. Not for a lot of years, sonny.”
    He read the indictment while I absorbed one of life’s realities. He threw it back to me.
    â€œStart a file. This is straight premeditated murder. She’s going for the full penalty. What have they got?”
    â€œJudge Bradley says they have two witnesses from the Chinese community that can identify him. They say they saw him shoot the victim.”
    â€œAnd what does he say?”
    â€œHe says he had dinner across the street at the Ming Tree restaurant on Tyler Street. He walked over to see the lion. They have a cloth lion with three or four men under it …”
    â€œI know. I’ve seen it. What’d he do?”
    â€œHe says he watched the lion approach the Chinese grocery storeacross from the restaurant. He was about ten yards from the building. Firecrackers going off all over the place. It got too loud, so he left. He was arrested a few blocks away. He didn’t even know there was a shooting.”
    He leaned back in the squeaking chair. I saw the
Globe
on a table to the side open to the conclusion of Mike Loftus’s article. I assumed he knew as much as I did about the second-story location of the old man when he was shot.
    â€œWe need to talk to those witnesses. The DA doesn’t have to tell us who they are. She can claim she’s protecting their lives. That means we have to find them on our own. I don’t want to see them for the first time at the trial. Why don’t you go down to Chinatown? See what you can find out. Make it fast. The DA’ll be pushing for an early trial date before we get our feet too firmly on the ground.”
    I was up and heading for the door when that voice spun me around again.
    â€œSonny, I want you on this full time till this trial ends. Whatever else you’ve got on your calendar goes to another associate.”
    He was back at the window, and it was my turn to turn him around.
    â€œMr. Devlin.” He looked back. “My name is Michael Knight.”
    He turned back to the window.
    â€œI know
who
you are, sonny. I want to know
what
you are.”
    ON THE WAY BACK DOWN the corridor to my office I had to pass the office of Whitney Caster, junior partner. Whitney was around my age, but had come directly to the firm from law school. That gave him enough of a head start to put him in a position to give the orders.
    Old Whitney suffered from that two-edged phobia that infects the brains of a number of middle-level lawyers. He was petrified of criticism from any member of the firm above him, and equally petrified of competition from those below him.
    It was, in fact, old Whitney who was responsible for the pretrialmotions on the Lothrop case that I had spent the morning arguing. I had the dubious pleasure of telling him that (a) the morning’s motion session before Judge Bradley had been a total disaster, and (b) he could find another lackey to do his dirty work, since I was off the case.
    â€œThe hell you are, Knight! You’ll go back and reargue that motion. If you think I’m going to get my ass reamed by Mr. Dawes for this, you can guess again. Who the hell gave you the authority to get off this case?”
    He was already hyperventilating from being up against a rock. In a quiet, respectful tone, I boxed him in with a hard place.
    â€œI’m working for Mr. Devlin full time. You might take it up with him.”
    One could gag on the silence that followed. I knew he’d rather open a vein than even meet Mr. Devlin in the corridor. I bade him a happy afternoon and took my leave.

4
    I FIGURED THE WORD of our embroilment in the case and my usurpation by Mr. Devlin would spread like an oil slick through the three networks of the firm—secretaries, associates, and partners. The partners would be clued in by