I convinced Harry to wait and see who showed as counsel, since Douthitt’s lawyer was special-ordered. Most of these guys used bargain-basement attorneys who had grubby offices squeezed between the bail bondsmen by the courthouse. Instead, the guy who showed up was a slender, bespectacled guy in his thirties with a tailored pinstripe suit and a creamy leather briefcase that probably cost more than thirty of the canvas satchels I used to tote around papers. Lawyer-boy was using a gold pen to scribe his name into the visitor’s log. “I know that guy from somewhere,” I said. “So do I,” Harry said. “Why?” The image formed, Mr Briefcase standing silently by as a bald bulldog barked at me through a cloud of musk. I said, “I’m pretty sure he was with Scaler’s lawyer, Carleton, the day we first interviewed Mrs Scaler.” “Hey,” I called across the room to the guy. “What group of shysters you practice with?” The guy looked up, pursed his lips. Ignored me. I nodded to Harry and we walked over, stood at his side.
