“It’ll take years to fight that,” the judge said, smirking.

Casey nodded her head and sighed, “And I’ve got years. So does the Project. So does Dwayne Hubbard; he’s done twenty already. In the meantime, given the current political sentiment of the American public, and given that you’ll be ripped up one side and down the other in every newspaper and law journal across this country for the racism you’ll be accused of harboring from your bench, I’m guessing your replacement will act quickly. You are up for election the year after next, right, Your Honor? I thought that’s what they said at the Rotary lunch.”

Kollar bunched his hands into white-knuckled fists and his jaw tightened. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like low thunder. “This is that TV guy, isn’t it?”

Casey shook her head. “I’m a lawyer, judge. I haven’t even figured the TV part of it into the equation. That’s a network decision, but if they did, it would make it all the more interesting, wouldn’t it? Like cyanide? A bit of thrashing around?”

“If you think you can threaten me with politics,” Kollar said, hunching his wide shoulders and leaning forward, “you’re in the wrong place, doll. And I’ve got a few contacts of my own. My wife’s brother is an editor at the New York Post.”

“So, I should file my complaint in the federal court?” Casey said, as pleasant as if they were playing a friendly game of checkers.

She began to rise.

“You sit down,” Kollar said, stabbing a finger at her, keeping his voice soft. “I’ve heard what you both have to say and I will look at your briefs and consider the validity of the arguments.”

Flynn’s smile faltered. “Judge. I thought we-”

“I will consider the law,” Kollar said, turning his finger on the hospital’s lawyer to silence him.

Casey studied them both, then smiled and asked, “Do you have an idea when you might be able to reach a decision, Your Honor?”

The judge’s lower lip disappeared beneath his upper teeth.

“Because I’d like to know tomorrow,” Casey said. “I think you’ll find the precedent is quite clear. I’d hate to have word get out and someone cause a big stir and then you come to the right decision, anyway. Why go through that?”

Kollar looked at her with hatred, but nodded his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, snapping her briefcase shut, rising from her chair, and turning to the butterflies. “Really, just stunning.”

JAKE TASTED BILE seeping up from the back of his throat.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said, swallowing, stepping forward, and extending his hand to the man in the olive green suit. “I’m here to interview Mr. Graham for American Sunday. We’re set up in his office.”

The man, thin with toffee-colored skin and a dark wiry mustache, shook Jake’s hand with an iron grip, never allowing his eyes to waver from Jake’s.

“Down there,” the man said, pointing to the hallway Jake had come out of. “I’ll let Mr. Graham know you’re waiting for him.”

“I know the receptionist said he’d be on some call until twelve-thirty,” Jake said, retreating. “We’re fine waiting, so you don’t have to bother him.”

“That’s okay,” the man said, still holding Jake in his eyes, “he’ll want to know you’re waiting.”

Jake retreated, pausing only to listen as the man gave two sharp raps on the door, paused, then entered. Jake found the bathroom and applied his makeup, breathing slowly to ease the knot in his stomach. When he returned to Graham’s office, he sat in one of the two chairs Dora had arranged amid the cameras in front of the big desk and pretended to busy himself with his notes to keep Dora from chatting and to give himself a chance to think. By the time the billionaire appeared in the doorway wearing his trademark flannel shirt and jeans with his chest hair showing, Jake had made up his mind to play the TV dope.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Graham said, shaking Jake’s hand and matching the firmness of his grip. “This is an honor.”

“Please,” Jake said, meeting Graham’s steady gaze, “and I admire all the good work you do.”

“I learned that lesson from my ex-wife,” Graham said, cracking a knowing smile at Jake. “She never gave back. That’s why she’s the ex.”

Jake chuckled, then motioned to the chair opposite him in the clutter of lights, cameras, and cables and asked, “Ready?”

“You?” Graham asked, holding Jake’s gaze.

“Always,” Jake said, grinning.

“You found the bathroom okay?” Graham asked, his eyes boring into Jake behind the happy mask of his face.

“Place is a maze,” Jake said, grinning. “I bumble around most days.”

“A Pulitzer Prize winner?” Graham said. “I imagine you know where you’re headed.”

“Me?” Jake said, smiling happily. “I just do as I’m told. Right, Dora?”

Dora looked up from her monitor and rolled her eyes. “When he does good, I give him a cookie.”

Jake smiled back at Graham. “I sure like cookies.”

Someone else might as well have written everything Jake asked. The questions about Graham’s monumental accomplishments and his level of giving pandered to the rich man’s ego, and by the time Jake had finished, Graham was red-faced and teary-eyed from telling humorous stories about eating ketchup sandwiches as a child and building toys out of used Popsicle sticks to sell to the other kids for a profit, part of which he’d always save in an orange UNICEF box he worked at filling year-round.

Graham sniffed once and pursed his lips, offering Jake a look of profound wisdom. “I really meant it when I said that the measure of a man isn’t what he has, but what he gives.”

Jake paused dramatically, looking into the rich man’s eyes. “Yeah, that was perfect. Just perfect.”

Jake looked back at Dora. “Wrap?”

“Nice work,” she said.

Jake nodded. “They’re gonna love this in New York. Thanks.”

“It’s just who I am,” Graham said with a somber expression.

Jake removed the tiny microphone from his lapel and stood to shake Graham’s hand.

“Hey, could I get your card?” Graham asked. “I’m in New York from time to time and I’d love to buy you dinner sometime, or just a drink.”

“Sure,” Jake said, removing the wallet from his back pocket and handing over a card. “That’s got my cell on it.”

Despite his receptionist’s continual presence and a reminder that he had a one-thirty call, it took nearly ten minutes for Graham to say his good-byes. Amid the tumult, Jake sat back down in his interview chair to tie his shoe. Secretly, he stuffed the battery pack for his microphone down in behind the chair’s leather cushion and fed the thin black cable around the edge, leaving only the tiny head of the microphone protruding from the front of the chair. When he stood up, Jake cast a quick glance at the chair and saw nothing anyone might notice.

When the audio tech asked Jake for his mic, Jake winked at him and motioned with his head toward the door. Jake picked up a light tripod and carried it out, the audio technician trailing him with his shoulder bag full of equipment.

When they reached the elevator, the tech asked, “So what the hell’s up?”

Jake put a finger to his lips and flicked his eyes at the camera. When they got to the parking lot, Jake waited for one of the cameramen to head back inside for more gear before he spoke.

“I need my mic,” Jake said, “and I’d like the audio deck, too. Can I keep it with me? I’ll bring it back to New York myself.”

“What for, Jake? Peter Brennan’s gonna want to know why I don’t have my stuff.”

“Tell him I wanted to listen to the tracks,” Jake said.

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Tell him I’m trying something with my intonation when I ask serious questions. Tell him anything. Can I have it?” Jake asked, holding out his hand.

The tech looked at his shoulder pack, shrugged, and handed it over. Jake glanced around and quickly popped the trunk of his Cadillac, dumping the equipment in before clapping the tech on the back and returning to the office to help with the rest of the stuff.