Pencil skirts. Pocket squares. She was surrounded by yuppies. They should post warning signs. Caution: Smart Phones at Work. Devin slowed her steps as she neared One Hogan Place, home of the New York County District Attorney’s Office. She glanced down at her outfit. She’d gone as conservatively as she could, given the limits of her wardrobe—a plain, black T-shirt, khaki cargo pants and black Doc Martens. Clean. Neat. Well-pressed. But compared to the Wall Street types, she looked like a refugee from a doomsday cult. “Move it or lose it, honey.” One of the pinstripe-suited businessmen shoved past her, knocking her oversize bag off her shoulder, no doubt late for some all-important meeting. “Thanks, asshole.” She managed to pick up her bag, narrowly missing being trampled by a candy-apple-red stiletto. Now she remembered why she hated the financial district.
