hallway still looked, smelled, and felt exactly the same.
When the clerk at the window announced his arrival to Farrell’s secretary, Treya Glitsky gave the order to let him right in, and the door to his left buzzed. Hardy went through it and stopped again.
This hallway, with its heavy doors leading off to tiny cramped offices on either side, carried an even larger mnemonic charge than the walk down from the elevators. Halfway down, two earnest young women who couldn’t possibly be old enough to be working here whispered like conspirators, and perhaps they were. A guy in a business suit stood in one of the doorways and suddenly laughed and just as suddenly cut it off. Behind Hardy, the door opened again, and when he half turned, he was facing Paul Stier, a tough adversary whom he’d trounced in their two trials opposing each other, the most recent only two months before.
Stier pulled up in his tracks, failing to conceal his surprise and displeasure. “Mr. Hardy.”
Hardy inclined his head. “Paul. How are you?” He held out his hand, and the other man took it perfunctorily.
“Can I help you?” Obviously, it bothered Stier that Hardy, a defense attorney, was standing unaccompanied in the prosecutor’s hallway. Probably spying.
“I’m just on my way in to talk to Mr. Farrell. We used to be partners.”
“Yes, I know. You can find your way, then?” Meaning: move it along and quit loitering here where you don’t belong, polluting our sacred hallway.
Hardy tried to keep traces of apology out of his voice. He had every right to be here, and if Stier didn’t like it, that was his problem. Pointing, he said, “On my way.”
A chilly smile. “Nice seeing you.”
When he stood in front of Treya’s desk in Farrell’s anteroom, she looked up from her keyboard, flashed him a genuine smile—“Diz!”—pushed out her chair, and came around to give him a quick hug. Regarding him at arm’s length, she asked him if he was all right.
“Fine, except I just ran into Paul Stier. I think he took our last trial together a little personally.”
Treya tsked. “How does he think that helps anything?”
“I bet it keeps him motivated. But still . . .”
“They don’t call him ‘The Big Ugly’ for nothing, Diz. Don’t let him get inside your head.”
“No, of course not. Nothing gets to me. I’m a defense attorney. I have no inner life.” Hardy inclined his head toward Farrell’s door. “Is His Majesty in?”
She lowered her voice. “I just woke him up and told him you were here.”
“Fantastic.”
“He said to show you right in.”
“Really?”
“His exact words.”
“I’m feeling better already.” Hardy stopped at the door and turned back to her. “On the wildly improbable assumption that I have feelings at all.”
A FTER ALMOST TWO years in his official position, Wes Farrell had acquired enough furniture to imprint on his physical office the stamp of his personality. He had never been a believer in the desk, for example, feeling that it created an unnecessary barrier between people. Instead, Farrell had installed a couple of wooden library tables on the room’s periphery. Randomly arranged on the table over by the Bryant Street windows were his computer and printer/fax, his landline telephone, and several thickstacks of folders. The table on the back wall held his enormous flat-screen television, with a dozen or so folding chairs in front of it, theater-style. The office was also large into the game theme, with a foosball table smack in the center of the room, a Nerf basketball net hung from the bookshelves, and a chessboard on a small table next to the door, right under the dartboard—the latter a gift from Hardy. Farrell had converted the counter under the bookshelves into a well-stocked, completely illegal (alcohol was forbidden everywhere in the Hall of Justice) wet bar complete with a minifridge, sink, and hot plate, and with spirits, wine, beers, a high-end espresso machine,
When the clerk at the window announced his arrival to Farrell’s secretary, Treya Glitsky gave the order to let him right in, and the door to his left buzzed. Hardy went through it and stopped again.
This hallway, with its heavy doors leading off to tiny cramped offices on either side, carried an even larger mnemonic charge than the walk down from the elevators. Halfway down, two earnest young women who couldn’t possibly be old enough to be working here whispered like conspirators, and perhaps they were. A guy in a business suit stood in one of the doorways and suddenly laughed and just as suddenly cut it off. Behind Hardy, the door opened again, and when he half turned, he was facing Paul Stier, a tough adversary whom he’d trounced in their two trials opposing each other, the most recent only two months before.
Stier pulled up in his tracks, failing to conceal his surprise and displeasure. “Mr. Hardy.”
Hardy inclined his head. “Paul. How are you?” He held out his hand, and the other man took it perfunctorily.
“Can I help you?” Obviously, it bothered Stier that Hardy, a defense attorney, was standing unaccompanied in the prosecutor’s hallway. Probably spying.
“I’m just on my way in to talk to Mr. Farrell. We used to be partners.”
“Yes, I know. You can find your way, then?” Meaning: move it along and quit loitering here where you don’t belong, polluting our sacred hallway.
Hardy tried to keep traces of apology out of his voice. He had every right to be here, and if Stier didn’t like it, that was his problem. Pointing, he said, “On my way.”
A chilly smile. “Nice seeing you.”
When he stood in front of Treya’s desk in Farrell’s anteroom, she looked up from her keyboard, flashed him a genuine smile—“Diz!”—pushed out her chair, and came around to give him a quick hug. Regarding him at arm’s length, she asked him if he was all right.
“Fine, except I just ran into Paul Stier. I think he took our last trial together a little personally.”
Treya tsked. “How does he think that helps anything?”
“I bet it keeps him motivated. But still . . .”
“They don’t call him ‘The Big Ugly’ for nothing, Diz. Don’t let him get inside your head.”
“No, of course not. Nothing gets to me. I’m a defense attorney. I have no inner life.” Hardy inclined his head toward Farrell’s door. “Is His Majesty in?”
She lowered her voice. “I just woke him up and told him you were here.”
“Fantastic.”
“He said to show you right in.”
“Really?”
“His exact words.”
“I’m feeling better already.” Hardy stopped at the door and turned back to her. “On the wildly improbable assumption that I have feelings at all.”
A FTER ALMOST TWO years in his official position, Wes Farrell had acquired enough furniture to imprint on his physical office the stamp of his personality. He had never been a believer in the desk, for example, feeling that it created an unnecessary barrier between people. Instead, Farrell had installed a couple of wooden library tables on the room’s periphery. Randomly arranged on the table over by the Bryant Street windows were his computer and printer/fax, his landline telephone, and several thickstacks of folders. The table on the back wall held his enormous flat-screen television, with a dozen or so folding chairs in front of it, theater-style. The office was also large into the game theme, with a foosball table smack in the center of the room, a Nerf basketball net hung from the bookshelves, and a chessboard on a small table next to the door, right under the dartboard—the latter a gift from Hardy. Farrell had converted the counter under the bookshelves into a well-stocked, completely illegal (alcohol was forbidden everywhere in the Hall of Justice) wet bar complete with a minifridge, sink, and hot plate, and with spirits, wine, beers, a high-end espresso machine,
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