Nothing Lost by John Gregory Dunne Page B

years, Harvey had waited to be appointed to the bench, but every year the Committee on Judicial Appointments had passed him by, always listing him as “Qualified,” its lowest recommendation. The only qualification needed for “Qualified” was still to be breathing.
    â€œYou were so good on
News at One,
” Patsy Feiffer said, hefting the evidence trunk onto the conference table. She was blond and limber, and whatever the season wore mix-and-match pastels, even on the most frigid winter days when the wind cut to the bone and the snow stung the face. She never missed an opportunity to compliment him. “That’s so right about not keeping score at a murder trial. I mean, it’s not a game, is it, J.J.?”
    J.J. looked over at Allie. His face was a mask. “Allie and I were talking about you, Patsy.” He wore his bad cold smile. His take-no-prisoners smile, Allie called it. Patsy glanced quickly at Allie, acknowledging her presence for the first time with the briefest of nods, then expectantly back at J.J., waiting to hear why she had been under discussion. “Allie doesn’t like you,” he said pleasantly. “She thinks you’re a babycake.” Patsy appeared stricken. Allie was impassive. Harvey Niland seemed not present, as if counting the days to his retirement. J.J. bored ahead. “Pampered. Entitled.” Nothing I had actually said, Allie recalled later. But in the ballpark. “Lady Bountiful.” The kind of frontal attack that was his courtroom trademark. “Always high-hatting her.”
    Patsy tried to gather a response. “I don’t really see why you and . . .” She pointed at Allie as if she could not bear to say her name.
    â€œTry ‘Allie,’ ” J.J. interrupted. “Short for Altagracia. Allie. Vasquez.” Then cutting each word off as if with a knife, he said, “And I really don’t see why you don’t have a response ready.” His voice lowered dangerously. “In a courtroom, you have to be prepared for every surprise. It never goes the way you want it to go. If you don’t answer, if you look as if you’re going to cry, as you do right now, then you’re lost, throw in the towel. ‘Your Honor, the prosecution asks for a directed verdict of not guilty by reason of prosecutorial incompetence.’ ” J.J. tented his fingers. “I assume you want to try cases . . .”
    Patsy nodded blankly.
    â€œThen give me an answer.” He raised his voice. “Now.”
    â€œI don’t see any justification for this . . .” Patsy began.
    â€œJustification?” His voice was contemptuous. “You think a lion needs justification to take down a zebra? His justification is he’s hungry. His justification is he can.” He was in her face. “You say, ‘BFD.’ You ever hear Allie say that? ‘Big fucking deal.’ You probably didn’t know what it meant. Or you say, ‘Of course she doesn’t, I’m a lawyer, she’s not, she takes night courses at an unaccredited law school from a homo who was fired from this office.’ You say, ‘Of course she doesn’t, she’s an envious bitch.’ You say, ‘Of course she doesn’t, she knows you want to get in my pants.’ ”
    Patsy seemed near tears. J.J. leaned close to her. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” he said quietly. “Just say something. The more outrageous the better. And if you’re in trial and the judge says you’re out of order, skirting contempt, BFD, you got the jury’s attention back. You’re the lion. The lioness. Belching after you eat the zebra.” He reached down and patted her hand. “You just learned more about criminal court behavior than you picked up in three years of law school. Don’t forget that.” He sat back in his chair. “And Allie thinks you’re just swell. Right,