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million dollars, all we've got. They oughta take it and spare the court all this time and effort."
    Cefalo shook his head. "Our liquidated damages alone, lost net accumulations for the estate, are over nine million. To say nothing of the widow's mental anguish and consortium claims."
    The judge laughed. "Danny, your widow lady don't look like she'll be without consortium for long."
    Good. I liked hearing that. Maybe the jurors will feel the same. Then we only get hit with nine million, enough to wipe out the good doctor several times over.
    The judge straightened. "All right, boys. Let's cut through the bullshit. Danny, how much will you take, bottom line?"
    "Four-point-five. Today. No structured settlement. All cash."
    The judge raised his eyebrows and ran a hand over his bald head. "Attaboy. I always figured you to bet the favorites to show, but you're no ribbon clerk, hey? Jake, whadaya got?"
    I turned my pockets inside out and shook my head. "A million, judge, just the policy. Client's only been in private practice five, six years. Just finished paying off his debts. He's pulling down big income, but no assets yet. We can't pay it if we don't have it. Besides, he's simply not liable."
    "Okay, Jake, but it's halftime, and you're getting your ass kicked from here to Sopchoppy. You see what's coming, don't you?"
    "You haven't heard my halftime speech."
    "Fine, we start with your first witness at one o'clock. Court's in recess." With that, he banged the gavel, and the hollow explosion echoed off the high, beamed ceiling. Roger Stanton slumped onto the defense table as if felled by a rifle shot.
    I headed into the corridor, nearly smashing into the lovely widow. She didn't notice. She was toe-to-toe with another young woman. Each was jawing at the other, faces inflamed, just a few inches apart like Lou Piniella and an umpire. I didn't recognize the other woman. No makeup, short-cropped jet black hair, a turned-up nose and a deep tan, blue jeans and running shoes, maybe the last pretty woman in Miami with thick glasses. Tortoiseshell round frames, giving her a professorial look. Her language, though, was not destined to win tenure. "You're a conniving slut and a little whore, and when I get to the bottom of this, we'll see who's out in the cold!"
    The widow's eyes had narrowed into slits. No tears now. Just sparks and flames. "Get away from me you ingrate, and clear your junk out of the house by six tonight or your ratty clothes will be floating in the bay."
    Dan Cefalo stepped in and separated the two. "Miss Corrigan, I think you best leave."
    Oh, Miss Corrigan. The one with the colorful vocabulary must be Philip Corrigan's daughter by his first marriage. I followed her down the corridor.
    "May I be of assistance?" I asked politely. Trying not to be your typical lawyer scavenging on the perimeter of misfortune.
    She lowered the thick glasses and studied me with steaming eyes the color of a strong cup of coffee. The eyes had decided not to make any friends today. She looked me up and down, ending at my black wingtips. I could check for wounds later. Her nostrils flared as if I emitted noxious fumes.
    "You're that doctor's lawyer, aren't you?" She made it sound like a capital crime.
    "Guilty as charged. I saw you discussing a matter with Mrs. Corrigan and I just wondered if I might help …"
    "Why? Are you fucking her or do you just want to?" She slid her glasses back up the slope of the ski-jump nose and headed toward the elevators.
    "No and yes," I called after her.

4
     
    THE SPORTSWRITER
     
    My desk was covered with little white telephone messages. Office confetti. You think the universe comes to a halt when you are locked into your own little world, but it doesn't. It goes on whether you're in trial or at war or under the surgeon's knife. Or dead. Dead rich like Philip Corrigan laid out on smooth satin in a mahogany box, or dead poor, a wino facedown in the bay.
    Greeting me in my bay front office was the clutter of