“I don’t got no problem, this piece a shit got the problem,” Shetrell said. “Bang, bang!” She shot the monitor with a finger gun turned sideways. The other do-rags laughed on cue. Leonia Page, the gangbanger who sat to her right, always laughed the hardest. It was her job.

“Chill, home,” Alice said in a passable black accent. She was in too good a mood not to play. She peered at Shetrell’s monitor. “Whatchoo tryin’ to do?”

“I ain’t your home,” Shetrell said with open contempt, and Alice grinned crookedly.

“Don’t you want to be my girlfrien’, girlfrien’?”

“Fuck that shit,” Shetrell said with a snort.

“That a no?”

“Yes. No.” The blue do-rags fell quiet at Shetrell’s confusion, and the red do-rags chuckled under their breath. The Muslims continued to suffer, and Alice dropped the accent.

“What’s the problem?”

“I said, I saved my document and now it won’t give it back.”

“The document is a file, so you have to open the file folder. Did the file open when you clicked open?”

“No.”

“Give it another chance,” Alice said, knowing Shetrell hadn’t tried it the first time. “Move the mouse to the yellow folder and click it.”

“Shee-it.” Shetrell grabbed the mouse and slid it left. The computer arrow hovered uncertainly over the folder icon on the toolbar. She clicked the mouse and her list of documents appeared.

“Guess the slap helped.”

“Always does,” Shetrell said, and glanced at Leonia, who was sizing up Connolly.

Shetrell knew Leonia could do Connolly, no problem. Leonia spent all of her free time in the weight room and lifted every day. She had her weight up to two-twenty-five now and she could put a serious hurt on a man, even. Leonia had to cap Connolly by the weekend. It meant a lot of money to Shetrell, though Leonia didn’t know how much. If Shetrell wanted it done, Leonia would do it. She’d love doin’ it, now that Connolly had dissed her.

Shetrell made a little nod to Leonia, who cut her eyes sideways, understanding.

Mary DiNunzio perched on the edge of her chair at counsel table, looking as jittery as she felt. Mary wasn’t the only lawyer nervous about making court appearances, but she was one of the few who would admit it. The modern courtroom had muted slate rugs, sleek black pews, and no windows to leap from, undoubtedly designed to prevent prisoners from committing suicide. Nobody cared if the lawyers committed suicide.

The emergency hearing was about to start. Bennie was conferring with the deputy at the dais, flanked by the royal-blue flag of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and an American flag with a gaudy yellow fringe. Courtroom personnel with plastic ID badges were pulling over a separate defense counsel table. The assistant district attorney, Dorsey Hilliard, drummed dark fingers on the prosecutor’s table, his head shaved to a bumpy polish and glistening brown, wrinkling into a bullish neck. Aluminum crutches rested on the floor at his feet, their elbow cups stacked like spoons, but it was almost as if they belonged to someone else, since Hilliard looked muscular and strong in a suit of custom pinstripes. The prosecutor had a reputation as one of the toughest in the city, and Mary fidgeted in her seat. ANYWHERE BUT HERE, LORD, she wrote on her legal pad. NOT INCLUDING THE OFFICE. OR LAW SCHOOL. She stopped writing when Bennie strode toward her and sat down at counsel table.

“This ought to be exciting,” Bennie whispered.

“Can’t wait,” Mary said, forcing a smile. I’d rather set my hair on fire.

“All rise for the Honorable Harrison J. Guthrie, presiding,” called the deputy. The lawyers stood as Judge Guthrie entered from a small door, ascended the dais with some effort, and settled his wizened frame into a high-backed leather chair. His head was a wispy white cap and his face bore the refined yet craggy lines of a patrician and an accomplished sailor. His blue eyes shone bright behind tortoise-shell reading glasses and his trademark red tartan bow tie perched like a plaid butterfly at the neck of his black robes.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, his voice firm despite his age, “you have requested an emergency hearing, and the Court has granted your request. As I recall, you don’t usually make such requests frivolously.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bennie said, pleased. She rose to her feet, recalling the last time she had been before Guthrie. The Robinson case, in which a cop had beaten a small-time drug dealer, apparently for thrills. The judge’s healthy damage award had drawn substantial criticism, though it was the right result. “I would like to enter my appearance in this matter, Your Honor.”

“A rather perfunctory chore, Ms. Rosato.”

“Usually, Your Honor. However, former defense counsel has refused to accede, even though the defendant wishes to retain me. I therefore find myself forced to seek resolution of this matter by the Court.”

Warren Miller, the young associate from Jemison, Crabbe, rose halfway to his feet. A slight, dark-haired lawyer, Miller wore rimless glasses, a three-piece suit, and the pallor of a hothouse orchid. “For the record, uh, we take issue with… that recounting of the facts, Your Honor.”

“The Court will hear from you in due course, Mr. Miller,” Judge Guthrie said, and Miller withered into his seat. “Now, Ms. Rosato, you have also requested that we bring down the defendant, Ms. Alice Connolly, and I granted that request, though the notice was short. You must know it was a great deal of trouble for the Court and the sheriffs.”

“I’m sorry the Court was inconvenienced, Your Honor. I didn’t have much notice myself and since this is a capital murder case, I was sure the Court would want the defendant to be heard.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Judge Guthrie said. He slid his reading glasses from his nose and waved at the deputy with them. “Perhaps we should have the defendant brought in. Will you, Mr. Deputy?” A courtroom deputy in a navy blazer disappeared behind a side door in the paneled wall and emerged a second later, followed by a Philadelphia police officer with a black windbreaker over his uniform and an earphone plugged into his left ear. Behind the cop walked Alice Connolly in her orange prison jumpsuit.

Bennie stood when Connolly entered, but Mary sat as if fixed to her chair, her eyes widening. Alice Connolly looked so much like Bennie she could be her twin. The defendant had a cynical smile, her hair was bright red and raggedy, and she was thinner, but her features looked the same. What was going on? Mary didn’t think Bennie had a twin, much less one accused of murdering a cop. This case was looking worse and worse. She grabbed her pen. Anybody got a match? I’ll bring the hair spray. It’ll only take a minute.

“You can seat the defendant with us, Officer,” Bennie said. “Right here.” She got up and pulled out the chair at counsel table next to Mary, who flipped a page in her legal pad quickly.

“Excuse me,” Miller interrupted, pulling out the chair next to him. “Ms. Connolly should be seated here, as I’m counsel of record.”

The cop glanced from one lawyer to the other, powerless to choose, but Mary couldn’t focus on the seating dispute, she was too distracted by Connolly’s looks. Didn’t anybody notice the similarity between the defendant and her new lawyer? The D.A. barely looked at Connolly. The lawyer from Jemison, Crabbe didn’t react. Maybe nobody noticed because the context was so different: Bennie was a prominent lawyer and Connolly a criminal defendant.

Bennie was standing before the dais. “Your Honor, I’m not going to fight over the physical location of the defendant. Mr. Miller seems to think that possession of Ms. Connolly makes him her lawyer, which of course it doesn’t. He’s welcome to sit with my client, with my permission.”