“Let’s just switch clothes,” Judy says.

“What?”

“At least it’s a change.”

I pop Judy’s tent of a peasant dress over my head. It billows to my ankles like a parachute. When I emerge from the embroidered hole in its top, Judy is still wrapped in a towel, holding up my tailored white dress.

“Do you need a bra with this dress?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“I don’t have a bra.”

“What do you mean you don’t have a bra?”

“I never wear a bra.”

“You don’t wear a bra to work? At Stalling and Webb? That’s a federal offense!”

“You can’t tell, my breasts are so small. You want to see?”

“No! Jesus Christ, will you cover up?”

“We’re both women, Mary.” She teases me by starting to unwrap the towel.

“I know that. That’s why.” I unhook my bra and slip it out through the wide sleeves of the smock. “Here, take mine. It’s one size fits all. Nobody can tell if I’m wearing one in this dress.”

“The bra off your back? What a pal!”

While Judy slips into the bra, I go over to the mirror and try to do something with my limp hair. A project for St. Rita of Cascia, Saint of the Impossible.

“Well, what do you think?” Judy asks.

I turn around. The dress, which is boxy on me, is too small for Judy, and it hugs each curve of her body. She looks dynamite. “Sell it, baby.”

She gives the hem a final tug. “Can it, baby.”

After we’re ready, we troop out to see if Miss Pershing has arrived. She’s closing up her clear plastic umbrella when I spot her, in jelly boots and a cellophane rain bonnet, at the secretaries’ closet.

“Good morning, Miss Pershing.”

She looks me over and smiles sweetly. “You look very pretty today, Miss DiNunzio. Very feminine.”

Judy slaps a hearty hand on my shoulder. “Doesn’t she though? I helped her pick out that dress.”

I give Judy a look. “Thank you, Miss Pershing. How was your book club last night?”

“Wonderful. Next week is Mary Higgins Clark.”

“Sounds great. Now I have to warn you, today is going to be a tough day, because Judy and I are working on an appellate brief. We need to finish it by the end of today. It’s on your desk, so could you start on it right away? We don’t have time to deal with Word Processing.”

“What about that other matter? The one we discussed yesterday.” She meets my eye significantly.

“It will have to wait, Miss P.”

“Got it!” She squares her shoulders.

“Call me as soon as you finish each page. I’ll come get it. Meantime, please hold my calls. And don’t tell anyone where I am, especially Ned Waters. We have to rewrite the whole day, because the brief has to be filed tomorrow.”

“Not to worry.” And she’s off, marching to her desk in her rain helmet and jelly boots.

We christen it the Shit from Shinola Brief and work on it all day in the war room. We run through draft after draft and eat everything that Catering Services carts up to us. We’re alternately dizzy, nauseated, euphoric, and cranky. By the end of the day, we have a terrible case of indigestion and a terrific brief. We place the final draft on Martin’s desk. His office is dark, and the empty eyes of the owls follow us as we leave. “I hate those fucking owls,” I say to Judy.

“They’re the only friends he has.”

My fatigue is catching up with me. “Think he’ll like the brief?”

Judy nods happily. “He has to. It’s brilliant. Thanks to you.”

“No.”

“Yes. You, Mary.” She gives me a playful push, which sends me crashing into the wall.

“What do you eat for breakfast?” I ask, as she skips ahead.

Back at the conference room, we pull up identical swivel chairs. I collapse into mine while Judy plays in hers, spinning in a circle. Miss Pershing appears in the doorway and steals a glance at Judy, going around and around. “Miss DiNunzio, aren’t you ladies through for the day?”

“No, we have a reception to go to upstairs.”

“Wheeeeeeee!” says Judy.

“I would think you’d be too tired for a reception. You both worked so hard.”

“We are, at least I am. But we have to go.”

“We must, we must! We must increase our bust!” Judy sings, spinning. Miss Pershing looks away.

“Miss Pershing, thank you for everything you did today. I appreciate it very much, and so does my co-counsel the lunatic.”

Judy stops spinning and grins, gaps on display. “God, I’m dizzy.” She holds her forehead. “Miss Pershing, I want to thank you for putting up with us, especially Mary. She can be so difficult when she’s under pressure.”

“I don’t know, I haven’t found that to be the case.” She smiles warmly.

“Thank you, Miss P.”

“I noticed you didn’t send out the…messages we discussed.” Miss Pershing looks nervously in Judy’s direction.

“It’s all right, Miss Pershing. Judy knows about the subpoenas.”

She seems disappointed. “Oh. Well. Why didn’t you mail them? Was something wrong with the way I filled them out?”

“No, they were fine, but I’m going to wait on them.”

“Well then,” Miss Pershing says. “Nighty-night, girls.”

“Nighty-night,” I say.

Judy’s eyes widen comically. “Nighty-night?”

“Say nighty-night to Miss Pershing, Judy.”

But Judy’s in hysterics, and Miss Pershing is long gone.

Before we leave for the reception on Avarice, we go to the locker room to freshen up. Judy offers me my clothes back, but I decline. I’m starting to like her artsy smock, and even my own bralessness. It makes me feel looser, freer. I splash water on my face to bring me back to life. Holy water, I think crazily. “Look, Jude, I’m reborn.”

“You’re not reborn, you’re exhausted.” She taps the soap dispenser. “You’ve been up for two days, kid. Remember your call to Lombardo? That was yesterday morning.”

I rinse my face with warm water. I think of Lombardo, then Berkowitz, and finally Ned. My heart turns bitter. “You know, you were right. It was Ned who sent the notes. I can’t believe it, but I think he killed Brent. And maybe even Mike.” I twist off the taps with a sigh.

Judy looks surprised. “How do you know?”

“I got another note. A love note, this time. It has to be from him. It came in the interoffice mail.” I bury my face in a nubby hand towel. Maybe I’ll never come out.

“Stay with me tonight. Kurt’s at the studio.”

I throw the towel at the hamper. It misses, but I don’t bother to retrieve it. “Thanks, but I don’t need to. I’m safe now. No more subpoenas, no more lawsuit. I’ll call Lombardo after the reception and have him question Ned.”

“What if you can’t find Lombardo? You’re not going home.”

“Alice hasn’t eaten in days. She’ll starve.”

“So what’s your point?”

We finish up, and take the elevator to Avarice. Roger Wilco greets us when we get off and waves us grandly into Conference Room A. I hardly recognize it; it’s been transformed. A string quartet plays Vivaldi in a corner. Lights glow softly on dimmer switches I never knew existed, and tuxedoed waiters pass through the crowd. The horse-shoe table, covered with a pristine linen tablecloth, is laden with silver trays of jumbo shrimp, fresh fruit, and crudités. It looks like an expense account version of the Last Supper.

“Christ Almighty,” I say, under my breath.

“They’re just men,” Judy whispers.

But the men are another story. The room reeks of their power. The apostles on the Rules Committee are here, along with a full complement of judges from the district court. I spot Chief Judge Helfer with Einstein, being fawned over by Golden Rod and a flotilla of Stalling alligators. The Honorable Jacob A. Vanek, who practically made the law in my field, yuks it up with Berkowitz and the Honorable John T. Shales, who’s rumored to be the next choice for the Supremes. The Honorable Mark C. Grossman and the Honorable Al Martinez, newly appointed from the counties, talk earnestly with Martin, who listens and listens. Bitter Man hovers over the jumbo shrimp like a blimp at the Superbowl.