Julie looked up at me. “You said ten,” she said. “You know me.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Coffee?” “I’ll get it.” I went to the machine and poured two mugs full. I gave one to Julie, then took the chair across from her desk. I lit a cigarette. “What’ve we got today?” “It’s all on your desk, Brady. I had to rearrange some things. You’re pretty packed in from eleven on.” “Cancel everything.” “Oh, no, you don’t. You can’t—” “Julie,” I said, “I’ll make it up to you. But you’ve got to do your thing. Tell them whatever you’ve got to tell them. Reschedule everything.” She frowned at me. “This isn’t fishing, is it?” “No.” “Something more important.” “Than fishing?” I pretended to dwell on that question. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. But it’s pretty damn important.” I reached The Honorable Chester Y Popowski in his chambers at the East Cambridge courthouse at five of eleven. Pops always takes a recess at quarter of eleven—out of deference to his aging prostate, he says—and his secretaries all know me well enough to put me through to him.
