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for a moment. "Toby is coming late tonight, Marshall. I think you should meet her."
      "Yes, sir. If you don't mind my asking—"
      "She's bringing a lawyer from her staff," Williams cut him off. "But his job will really be to observe and keep Toby in the loop. The man who was shot could not have done this alone. When we find his accomplices, they will be prosecuted out of this office—and you're going to do it."
      Marshall was shocked into silence. He took a breath, then said: "Thank you, sir. But what about John Deacons?"
      "This is big, but it's not for him. You're the man for this job."
      Deacons was white, and Marshall wondered if that was what Nate meant. He wanted to ask him but didn't want to risk offending Nate. It was not often that a black man rose to Nate's position in the legal profession. He had probably suffered all manner of insult to his intelligence and competence in his time. Marshall didn't want to add to it by questioning his decision. It would sound ungrateful.
      "I'm very flattered and pleased to take the assignment, sir," said Marshall.
      "You get to pick the rest of your team. Just two others. Any other people will be behind-the-scenes support. Get ready for an all-nighter. Toby will be in at midnight."
      Williams walked away. Marshall followed him out of the door and into the bull pen. Williams was not the kind of man to sit on a decision. He was already prosecuting the case, and the killer hadn't even been caught yet.
      Suddenly, Marshall noticed his colleagues staring at him. They had apparently been watching his office all along. He knew that they knew. Walter Anderson quickly moved over to him. His face was flushed with excitement.
      "You got it, didn't you, you sonofabitch?"
      "Yes." Marshall headed for the door.
      "I'm putting in my bid right now," said Walter. "I want on the team."
      "I need some air, man," said Marshall. "Excuse me."
      Marshall walked out of the office, and headed for the elevator.
      "Don't forget about your friends when you choose the team," Walter called after him.
      The office din seemed louder as he walked to the elevators. His head was spinning. He had just been tapped to prosecute the biggest case of his career, and despite the terrible tragedy involved, he felt like dancing.
      Marshall walked slowly to the elevators and got on. He turned, and saw his colleagues still watching him in awe. The elevator doors closed, and the last thing he saw was the seal of the United States, finely etched in glass.

4 Side Hustle

    L aShawn Reid counted out his money carefully. The bills were new, and they tended to stick together. He smiled and smelled the newly minted bills. Nothing smelled as sweet as new money, he thought. He quickly finished. It was all there, five thousand dollars. Pretty good for some little damned pieces of metal, he thought. He didn't own a computer, but he knew the chips were worth a lot of cash.
      LaShawn, his partner, O.T., and the buyer were standing in an abandoned auto body garage on the east side of the city. The floor was littered with old scrap metal and broken tools. The sun was out, but it was a January morning, and the garage didn't provide much shelter, so it was cold inside.
      LaShawn was a dark, thin man with a shaved head and goatee. His partner, O.T., was squat, with a shaggy beard and a buzz cut. O.T. wore a big gold stud in the side of his flat nose.
      The buyer was a young, white man named Tommy. He had sandy blond hair, freckles, and stark, green eyes. Tommy looked over the microchips with a big magnifying glass. He closed the plastic case and looked at LaShawn.
      "Nice, very nice," he said. His breath turned into pale smoke from the cold.
      "Nothing but the best," said LaShawn. "Check it out. My shit even made the news." LaShawn held out a newspaper. On a back page was a story about the theft of a case of computer chips from a local warehouse. "Shoot, I'm damnednear