“McKinney, this young woman-this teenager-does she have a name?” Gertz asked.

“I’m-uh-I’m not sure I recall,” McKinney stammered, glancing over to see if I would give him up.

I was nodding my head up and down in response to the judge’s question.

“Oh, yeah. Hassett. Rebecca Hassett. That’s right, isn’t it, Alex?” McKinney had recovered the memory quickly in the face of more potential embarrassment.

“That mean anything to you, Lem?” Gertz said, looking back and forth between the men.

“Nothing. Nothing, Your Honor.”

“Ms. Cooper, where are you in all this?” Gertz asked.

“Mr. McKinney and I don’t agree with each other about the propriety of raising this issue with you at this point in time. It has no place in this case, Your Honor. You both need to know that beyond the jurisdictional issue, it’s apparent that Brendan Quillian was out of the country when the young woman Pat has referred to was murdered.”

Lem Howell looked at Pat McKinney, and I could lip-read his clearly articulated “You motherfucker,” which he whispered with his back turned to Gertz.

McKinney didn’t know when to stop. “Now, Mr. Quillian was also out of town when his wife, Amanda, was murdered. Ms. Cooper and a grand jury-and this court that reviewed all of Mr. Howell’s pretrial motions to dismiss on the sufficiency of the evidence-didn’t seem to think that was a bar to prosecution.”

“Pat, we’re off-the-record here, so I won’t say this quite the way I would if a reporter were taking down my remarks. Keep your mouth shut, will you? Not a word of any of this until you package it before some judge in the Bronx, where it belongs-when you’re quite ready to do that. Alexandra, do you understand me?”

“Completely, Your Honor. I think Mr. Howell and I trust each other enough so that he’ll believe me when I assure him that there will be no leaks from my office. He has my word on that.”

Gertz was surprised to see me in agreement with my adversary. “Lem?”

“I do appreciate that, Alexandra, but I’d like the judge to exact that same promise from Mr. McKinney. Unfortunately, Pat has a little less respect for the law than some of his colleagues.”

“Spare me the ad hominem attacks, Lem,” Gertz said, not able to put his finger on what was going on among the three of us. “You listen to me, Pat. Not a word of this to any reporters. I don’t know what your game is here, but I’m not having any of it in my courtroom.”

Gertz stood up again and pounded his gavel for emphasis. “Nine o’clock tomorrow. Be ready to put your first witness in the box at nine fifteen.”

I turned to leave. Pat McKinney was a few steps behind me, muttering under his breath. “I’m trying to help you here, Alex. If Gertz thinks Brendan Quillian is involved in another homicide, even the most subtle rulings would tend to go your way from this point on. It’ll change his whole attitude.”

“Sorry, Pat. You forgot to tell me which hand it is you’ve got the judge eating from, and what it is you’ve been feeding him. I think I can guess, but I’d rather do it the old-fashioned way. Ethically, if it’s all the same to you.”

Lem picked up his briefcase and held open the wooden barrier that separated the well from the courtroom seats. “I wonder about the company you’re keeping, Ms. Cooper. Try to shake loose from that devil before the morning, will you?”

“See you tomorrow, Lem.”

Artie Tramm followed Pat to the door to lock it behind us. As we entered the darkened corridor, I recognized the man walking toward me. He was one of the most prominent litigators in the city-Justin Feldman-whose practice kept him active in the more refined setting of the nearby federal courthouse. Distinguished-looking, in his late sixties, he was taller than I, with thinning hair and a tan that looked as if he’d spent many recent hours on the tennis court. Feldman had mentored a good number of my friends at the bench and bar.

“Laura told me I might find you up here,” he said. “May I take you away from Pat for a minute?”

“Of course.” I stepped into the alcove outside Part 83 and let McKinney go on his way. “I owe you for that. What can I help you with?”

“I’ve just been brought in to represent a guy named Lawrence Pritchard. Do you know who I mean?”

Pritchard was the former chief engineer on the tunnel project, the man whose name had been written on the back of Brendan Quillian’s business card and dropped on the courtroom floor.

“Yes, Justin. I know exactly who he is.”

“An agent from the joint terrorist task force showed up on his doorstep this morning.”

“I’m not in charge of any agents. I didn’t send anyone to Pritchard’s home.”

“I know that. Apparently he’s one of the Feds on the task force. He’s working with a prosecutor in the Southern District.”

Battaglia would have my head if he lost the tunnel investigation to the U. S. attorney for the Southern District of New York.

“The guy wanted to question Larry about his relationship with Duke Quillian, about the explosion in the tunnel last week. I’ve told him not to talk to anyone until I met with you. Battaglia said you’re in charge of the investigation for the moment.”

“We can get you someone to meet with while I’m on trial,” I said, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed with the problems of my own witnesses, the untimely direction from Battaglia and McKinney about Bex Hassett’s case, and my nagging concerns about Carol Goodwin’s hostility, since she had blamed her suicidal ideation on me just a few hours earlier. “What are you looking for?”

I wondered how quickly I could get Battaglia to put a couple of junior assistants on the tunnel case without yielding control of the investigation to Pat McKinney.

“First of all, I’d rather work with your office than the Feds on this. It takes so damn long to run everything past Washington when you’re trying to clear things up for a client.”

Feldman was right. Battaglia was the court of last resort when decisions had to be made on office matters, but the federal prosecutors needed to get authority from the Department of Justice before going forward.

“What else, Justin?”

“Queen for a day, Alex.”

Pritchard had chosen his counsel well. Feldman’s request for a particular kind of interview session that would limit his client’s exposure had come to be known by that flippant name within the criminal bar. His witness was essentially telling him that he had information that would be of value in our investigation. He was offering to cooperate with the state-and, in exchange, I would be giving up my ability to use any statements Pritchard made on that day in any future criminal prosecution against him. The witness may have been helping me build a case against one of the other suspects, but in all likelihood he was trying to protect himself because of some illegal conduct in which he’d been involved.

I was startled by the introduction of Pritchard’s name and that he claimed to have a story to tell. I tried to read Feldman’s face in the darkened hallway. “Lawrence Pritchard wants to talk?”

“He’s got information about Duke Quillian, Alex. What do you say, will you give us queen for a day?”