“Objection as to relevance!” Julicher shouted, tossing his pen onto the table, where it skidded into the stack of exhibits.

“Answer the question, Miss Sullivan.”

Patricia looked from me to Julicher. “Do I have to answer? Does this matter, Stan?”

“Of course not,” Julicher said. “Come off it, Rita. The line of questioning is irrelevant.”

“It’s highly relevant, and you can’t object to relevance during a deposition anyway. Let her answer the question or I’ll call Judge McKelvey and get a ruling.”

Julicher scowled, then looked away, simmering. “Go ahead, Patricia. It’s ridiculous, but you can answer.”

She smoothed back her hair. “Well, the judge sent spider mums.”

“What color?” Yellow.

“Yellow, I think.”

“How many, each time?” Eighteen.

“Eighteen.”

Eighteen, not twelve, because he wanted the vase to look overfull. “Why not a dozen, do you know?”

Julicher exploded. “What’s the point what color, how many? This is a waste of time! None of this has to do with her allegations!”

“Why not a dozen, Miss Sullivan? I remind you again that you are under oath.”

“I don’t remember!” Patricia said, flustered.

Liar. So Fiske was having an affair. And it was a love affair, not just sex. Had he expected me not to find out? What the hell was going on? “Did Judge Hamilton give you anything else?”

“Yes,” she said, looking worriedly at Julicher.

“What did he give you?”

“He sent me some oils and painting supplies.”

Julicher frowned and the Cadillac emblem did the watusi. Maybe he had bought Patricia’s sexual harassment story from the start, but more likely he wanted deniability too much to quiz her in any depth. Then again, maybe he anticipated Fiske wouldn’t want to defend by proving they had a consensual love affair, and Julicher knew he had a winner either way. I was the one in the lose-lose position. And Fiske.

“Miss Sullivan, how many times did Judge Hamilton send you paints and supplies in the seven-month period?”

“Once or twice. Uh… once.”

But Fiske didn’t paint, he played tennis. “How did he know what to send?”

“I don’t know. I never asked for the supplies. Never.”

“You didn’t send them back, did you?”

“No.”

“Did Judge Hamilton ever give you any money?”

Her eyes flashed defensively. “Absolutely not. He offered to lend me some, but I turned it down.”

“Don’t volunteer, Patricia!” Julicher shouted, loud as a schoolyard bully. “I told you that!”

“Sorry. Sorry,” she said, rattled.

“Miss Sullivan, did Judge Hamilton offer you the money before or after he bought the paintings?”

“Before.”

So after she’d refused the money, Fiske bought her paintings. I put two and two together, unfortunately without the aid of my client. “Did he ever commission a painting from you?”

She didn’t answer but reached for her water with a shaky hand. The court reporter remained poised over the stenography machine, its unlabeled black keys a mystery to everyone but her. The room got very quiet, and Julicher looked up from his notes when the silence caught up to him.

“The judge commissioned one painting from me,” Patricia said finally. “A portrait.”

“Of who? Whom?”

“Of you and the man you live with.”

What? My throat caught. “The painting was of me?”

“It was from a photograph taken in Bermuda, I think the judge said. You were standing under a moongate.”

Paul and me. Our first trip together. It was after we had dinner, the first night. A man from Iowa had taken the photo.

“You wore a white dress, like silk,” Patricia said.

Paul had loved that dress. I bet him he couldn’t unzip it with his teeth. Then he did.

“I think the portrait was supposed to be an anniversary surprise.”

I remembered Paul slipping out of his jacket, then unbuttoning his dress shirt. Why are you taking your own clothes off? I had asked him. Because I can do it faster, he’d said, laughing.

There was laughter in the conference room. “Earth to Rita,” Julicher said with a smirk, and I fumbled for my stride.

“Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”

Julicher leaned forward. “Now what’s the relevance of that?”

None, but I wanted to know. “Miss Sullivan, where is the painting now?”

Julicher laid a hammy hand on his client’s arm. “Objection! You’re asking her to speculate. It’s absolutely irrelevant to this lawsuit!”

“Did you keep the painting, Miss Sullivan?” I asked, louder. If her own lawyer could bully her, so could I.

“I… don’t know,” Patricia said. Her thin skin was tinged pink, her voice sounded jittery. “Stan?”

“Objection!” Julicher shouted, slamming the table so hard Patricia jumped. “You’re upsetting the witness!”

Time to raise him. “This is only the beginning, Stan. She’s suing my client for a fortune. She had better understand what that means.”

Julicher looked enraged. “It doesn’t mean she has to take this shit!”

“Sorry, pal. That’s exactly what it means!” I shot back, then heard a whimper. It was Patricia. Tears had sprung to her eyes and she was reaching into her jumper pocket for a Kleenex. Christ. The woman was either a perfect angel or a perfect actress. I decided to back off as she dabbed at her eyes. I’d made my point.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I didn’t know-”

“It’s okay, Miss Sullivan. Let’s get back to the complaint,” I said, and took her through her allegations while she recovered. The deposition went on without further incident while everybody calmed down, and my thoughts clicked away.

So Patricia and Fiske had been lovers, although neither would admit the truth in court. My problem was I had a case to win, and the best way to do it would be to prove there was an affair. But Fiske would never permit that. He’d be asked to resign from the bench, and it would kill Kate. I’d been dealt a garbage hand but couldn’t fold.

I wondered if I could convince Fiske to settle. I wondered why I’d taken the damn case in the first place. And later, as I took Patricia through my final questions, I wondered about the silk dress Paul had loved so much.

Gone.

I ignored the stack of yellow slips on my desk, a pile of letters waiting to be signed, and the morning mail, still sitting in stiff thirds. Patricia’s deposition had taken the whole day and I had a million things to do, but the first order of business was to call my favorite presidential appointee-the cheating, lying, deceitful judge who had manipulated me into this mess. Everybody hates lawyers, but they don’t realize judges are just lawyers with a promotion. Think about it.

“Rita, how are you?” Fiske said calmly, when he picked up.

Pissed off. “Fine. Listen, we need to talk.”

“Did it go well?”

“For a fistfight.”

“What happened?”

“Her lawyer’s a bastard and she’s a liar. The whole lawsuit is a sham.”

“I told you, she’s fabricated the entire story.”

How to put this respectfully? “Not exactly. You weren’t forthcoming with me either, Fiske.” In other words, you lied through your caps.

“What do you mean?”

Where to begin. “Patricia testified about the flowers you sent. They were spider mums.”

“Oh?”

“So I know the truth.”

He paused. “I see.”

I almost laughed. This was how WASPs reacted to news that would trigger a Portabella mushroom cloud in Italians. “I can’t defend this case without telling the truth.”

“That’s not an alternative.”

“You’re a judge, Fiske. The truth should at least be an alternative.”

There was quiet on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry,” I said, without meaning it.

“Understood. But that defense is untenable, Rita. Any victory won that way would be Pyrrhic. I have a reputation, a judicial career, and a marriage to consider.” His voice sounded tense but more honest than he had been. Finally, he was leveling with me.