Recast.” McKenna remembered her editor’s comment, red-penciled in the margin of the manuscript for Unreasonable Doubt. The note was in response to McKenna’s depiction of an FBI agent who appeared at the local police precinct to exercise federal jurisdiction over the investigation. But McKenna had met a few FBI agents in her time at the district attorney’s office, usually when the feds were cherry-picking her best drug cases, and they’d all been straitlaced, clean-cut, and rigid. They had deep voices, didn’t laugh, and favored midpriced suits from places like JoS. A. Bank. Just because it was a stereotype didn’t mean it wasn’t true. But Jamie Mercado didn’t fit the mold. She was petite, with long, dark, wavy hair and a full face of makeup, complete with cherry-red lipstick. Like agents McKenna had worked with in the past, she wanted answers, but instead of resorting to legalese and bureaucratic officiousness, Mercado leaned across the table toward McKenna, raising her voice in obvious anger.
