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case?”
    She nodded.
    “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Not at this stage.”
    “What’s going to happen?”
    “First thing,” I said, “I talk to the deputy city attorney.”
    “Is he reasonable?” Kate said.
    “I’m not even sure it’s a he, Mrs. Richess.”
    “You da man anyway,” Carl said.
    I felt so much better.

14
    T HE DCA WAS not a man. She was a blonde, late-twenties. Dressed to impress, but without shouting about it. Noticeable but understated
     jewelry. Makeup to accentuate very clear positives.
    I knew this look. It was Harvard or Yale. Maybe Georgetown. The kind who thinks they own the whole courtroom because they
     know so much more than you do. Maybe have designs on being a judge someday.
    But right now, she was a newish prosecutor doing everything she could to show she’s not going to be pushed around. She was
     standing at the counsel table, looking through a stack of files.
    I approached. She didn’t look up.
    “I’m da man,” I said.
    She whipped around. “Excuse me?”
    “My name’s Buchanan,” I said.
    “What’s your client’s name?” She had an angular face that suggested early Katharine Hepburn. Cheekbones and all that. In perfect
     proportions.
    “Innocent,” I said. “That’s his name.”
    “Hilarious.”
    “Just a little arraignment humor.”
    “Name.”
    “Richess.”
    She riffled through the files on the table, pulled one out, opened it. “Oh my,” she said.
    “If that’s about the G-string, I want you to know it has nothing to do—”
    “He blew a one-eight.”
    “Those darn machines never work right.”
    She didn’t smile but her emerald eyes did a little dance. “This is a standard,” she said. Meaning the bottom-line deal they
     offer with a first offense.
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said.
    “Nothing to talk about. Not with a one-eight.”
    “See, we’re going to plead not guilty and take this down the road.”
    “The offer won’t change,” she said. “You should know that.”
    “I figured.”
    “Then let’s clear this thing now.”
    I said, “My client, see, he has this odd notion that he has the right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against
     him and—”
    “Please.” She tossed the file on the table like it was an overdue bill. “Is that really what you’re going to do?”
    “Yeah, but I just wanted to tell you, it’s nothing personal.”
    “I bet you can read the relief in my face,” she said.
    “Remember Rodney King? Can’t we all just get along?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Do I have to go to the office to find out your name?” I said.
    She stuck out her hand. “Kimberly Pincus,” she said, “and if we go to trial on this, I’m going to eat your lunch and take
     your milk money.”
    I smiled. “I think you really mean that.”
    “Oh I do, Mr.… what was it again?”
    “Cochran. Johnnie.”
    “Sorry, Johnnie’s not with us anymore. But not even he could do anything with this case. Don’t make this harder on yourself
     than—wait a second.” She turned and faced me fully. “You’re the guy who was up for murdering that reporter.”
    “Guilty. I mean, yes, but not guilty.”
    Now she smiled. “You used to be a big-time litigator somewhere, didn’t you?”
    “That’s the rumor.”
    “What are you doing down here in the trenches, dealing deuces?”
    “I’m not dealing, remember?”
    “Your rep is good, as I recall. Are you a gambler, Mr. Buchanan?”
    “I played regular poker through law school. Didn’t pay my tuition, but bought me some pretty nice meals.”
    “The stakes are higher here. And the odds favor the house.”
    “But going to trial is fun,” I said. “And you need to be put through your paces every now and then.”
    She took a long, hard look at me. The corner of her mouth went up slightly.
    “We’re not racehorses,” she said.
    That’s when the judge decided to enter.
    “The flag is up,” I said, and walked to the first row of the gallery