The two junior agents had taken up position against the walls at opposite ends of the table, like sentries. Their jackets were open and their shoulder holsters were visible. Their hands were folded comfortably at their waists. Their heads were turned, watching him. Opposite him, the two teams were forming up. Seven chairs, five people. The gray-haired guy took the center chair. The light caught his eyeglasses and turned them into blank mirrors. Next to him on his right-hand side was the guy with the blood pressure, and next to him was the woman, and next to her was the sandy guy. The guy with the lean face and the shirtsleeves was alone in the middle chair of the left-hand three. A lop-sided inquisition, hunching toward him, indistinct through the glare of the lights.

The gray-haired guy leaned forward, sliding his forearms onto the shiny wood, claiming authority. And subconsciously separating the factions to his left and right.

“We’ve been squabbling over you,” he said.

“Am I in custody?” Reacher asked.

The guy shook his head. “No, not yet.”

“So I’m free to go?”

The guy looked over the top of his eyeglasses. “Well, we’d rather you stayed right here, so we can keep this whole thing civilized for a spell.”

There was silence for a long moment.

“So make it civilized,” Reacher said. “I’m Jack Reacher. Who the hell are you?”

“What?”

“Let’s have some introductions. That’s what civilized people do, right? They introduce themselves. Then they chat politely about the Yankees or the stock market or something.”

More silence. Then the guy nodded.

“I’m Alan Deerfield,” he said. “Assistant Director, FBI. I run the New York Field Office.”

Then he turned his head to his right and stared at the sandy guy on the end of the line and waited.

“Special Agent Tony Poulton,” the sandy guy said, and glanced to his left.

“Special Agent Julia Lamarr,” the woman said, and glanced to her left.

“Agent-in-Charge Nelson Blake,” the guy with the blood pressure said. “The three of us are up here from Quantico. I run the Serial Crimes Unit. Special Agents Lamarr and Poulton work for me there. We came up here to talk to you.”

There was a pause and the guy called Deerfield turned the other way and looked toward the man on his left.

“Agent-in-Charge James Cozo,” the guy said. “Organized Crime, here in New York City, working on the protection rackets.”

More silence.

“OK now?” Deerfield asked.

Reacher squinted through the glare. They were all looking at him. The sandy guy, Poulton. The woman, Lamarr. The hypertensive, Blake. All three of them from Serial Crimes down in Quantico. Up here to talk to him. Then Deerfield, the New York Bureau chief, a heavyweight. Then the lean guy, Cozo, from Organized Crime, working on the protection rackets. He glanced slowly left to right, and right to left, and finished up back on Deerfield. Then he nodded.

“OK,” he said. “Pleased to meet you all. So what about those Yankees? You think they need to trade?”

Five different people facing him, five different expressions of annoyance. Poulton turned his head like he had been slapped. Lamarr snorted, a contemptuous sound in her nose. Blake tightened his mouth and got redder. Deerfield stared and sighed. Cozo glanced sideways at Deerfield, lobbying for intervention.

“We’re not going to talk about the Yankees,” Deerfield said.

“So what about the Dow? We going to see a big crash anytime soon?”

Deerfield shook his head. “Don’t mess with me, Reacher. Right now I’m the best friend you got.”

“No, Ernesto A. Miranda is the best friend I got,” Reacher said. “Miranda versus Arizona, Supreme Court decision in June of 1966. They said his Fifth Amendment rights were infringed because the cops didn’t warn him he could stay silent and get himself a lawyer. ”

“So?”

“So you can’t talk to me until you read me my Miranda rights. Whereupon you can’t talk to me anyway because my lawyer could take some time to get here and then she won’t let me talk to you even when she does.”

The three agents from Serial Crime were smiling broadly. Like Reacher was busy proving something to them.

“Your lawyer is Jodie Jacob, right?” Deerfield asked. “Your girlfriend?”

“What do you know about my girlfriend?”

“We know everything about your girlfriend,” Deerfield said. “Just like we know everything about you, too.”

“So why do you need to talk to me?”

“She’s at Spencer Gutman, right?” Deerfield said. “Big reputation as an associate. They’re talking about a partnership for her, you know that?”

“So I heard.”

“Maybe real soon.”

“So I heard,” Reacher said again.

“Knowing you isn’t going to help her, though. You’re not exactly the ideal corporate husband, are you?”

“I’m not any kind of a husband.”

Deerfield smiled. “Figure of speech, is all. But Spencer Gutman is a real white-shoe operation. They consider stuff like that, you know. And it’s a financial firm, right? Real big in the world of banking, we all know that. But not much expertise in the field of criminal law. You sure you want her for your attorney? Situation like this?”

“Situation like what?”

“Situation you’re in.”

“What situation am I in?”

“Ernesto A. Miranda was a moron, you know that?” Deerfield said. “A couple of smokes short of a pack? That’s why the damn court was so soft on him. He was a subnormal guy. He needed the protection. You a moron, Reacher? You a subnormal guy?”

“Probably, to be putting up with this shit.”

“Rights are for guilty people, anyway. You already saying you’re guilty of something?”

Reacher shook his head. “I’m not saying anything. I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Old Ernesto went to jail anyhow, you know that? People tend to forget that fact. They retried him and convicted him just the same. He was in jail five years. Then you know what happened to him?”

Reacher shrugged. Said nothing.

“I was working in Phoenix at the time,” Deerfield said. “Down in Arizona. Homicide detective, for the city. Just before I made it to the Bureau. January of 1976, we get a call to a bar. Some piece of shit lying on the floor, big knife handle sticking up out of him. The famous Ernesto A. Miranda himself, bleeding all over the place. Nobody fell over themselves rushing to call any medics. Guy died a couple minutes after we got there.”

“So?”

“So stop wasting my time. I already wasted an hour stopping these guys fighting over you. So now you owe me. So you’ll answer their questions, and I’ll tell you when and if you need a damn lawyer.”

“What are the questions about?”

Deerfield smiled. “What are any questions about? Stuff we need to know, is what.”

“What stuff do you need to know?”

“We need to know if we’re interested in you.”

“Why would you be interested in me?”

“Answer the questions and we’ll find out.”

Reacher thought about it. Laid his hands palms up on the table.

“OK,” he said. “What are the questions?”

“You know Brewer versus Williams, too?” the guy called Blake said. He was old and overweight and unfit, but his mouth worked fast enough.

“Or Duckworth versus Eagan?” Poulton asked.

Reacher glanced across at him. He was maybe thirty-five, but he looked younger, like one of those guys who stay looking young forever. Like some kind of a graduate student, preserved. His suit was an awful color in the orange light, and his mustache looked false, like it was stuck on with glue.

“You know Illinois and Perkins?” Lamarr asked.

Reacher stared at them both. “What the hell is this? Law school?”

“What about Minnick versus Mississippi?” Blake asked.

Poulton smiled. “McNeil and Wisconsin?”

“ Arizona and Fulminante?” Lamarr said.

“You know what those cases are?” Blake asked.

Reacher looked for the trick, but he couldn’t see it.