“Does she know what it regards?”

“It’s a personal matter. I’m sure that if she knew the details, she would want to see me.”

This stumps her. She looks at my card again: “attorney-at-law.” If it said “salesman,” I’d be out on the street looking back through the glass by now.

“If you’ll follow me,” she says. “I’m not sure whether Ms. Scott is in.”

We head to the elevator. A minute and a half later, I’ve made it to the next level, the reception area upstairs. Here there are deep plush carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows of smoked glass with shaded views out over the city. Across the street lies Farragut Square. One block beyond lies the squat Roman temple that is the U.S. Chamber of Commerce building. Over the top and beyond is Lafayette Square, and in the distance behind the park is the White House. Toward the southeast the Capitol dome sprouts like a half-hatched Easter egg in the noonday sun. The executive offices of Barrett, Coal & Johnston possess an eagle’s-nest view of all the power spots in town.

“If you’ll take a seat,” she says, “I will check with Ms. Scott’s assistant.”

As the phalanx of gatekeepers grows, the mesh of their screen becomes finer. I may be wasting my time. By now Scott would surely be following the news reports of Arnsberg’s trial. If so, she will have seen my name. What I am banking on is her curiosity. A lawyer, she would know that I could subpoena her to the trial, put her on a witness list, and let her cool her heels. What is more difficult would be to get her to talk to me. If she refuses, there is little I can do, and to put her on the stand at trial and ask questions to which I do not already know the answers would be its own form of Russian roulette.

The receptionist disappears to the back behind the large ebony reception counter and the mirrored glass wall separating me from the firm’s engine room, where power is spun into gold.

Barrett, Coal & Johnston is sufficiently large that to dispense separate business cards for the many partners and associates out on the counter would require a vending machine. Instead there’s a glossy brochure that outlines the firm’s services and specialties. I pull one of these and take a look. To no one’s surprise, the firm is heavily invested in regulatory law, with a sideline in patents and appellate practice, all keyed toward business and commerce.

The firm sports two former United States senators as “of counsel,” a kind of emeritus status in which work is often not required, only the name engraved on a brass plaque on a door. The firm claims association with three former Harvard fellows, professors of law. One of these is nationally known and appears with sufficient regularity before the Supreme Court that I have heard legal pundits sometimes refer to him as “the tenth member of the Court.”

The last three pages of the brochure are taken up with fine print, the names of partners and associates. Many of these are followed by asterisks and other symbols, all keyed to honors and awards. I find Scott’s name and after it a symbol in the form of a small dagger. I check the code: “former U.S. Supreme Court clerk.” I do a quick count of these. I am beyond two dozen and counting when I’m interrupted.

“Mr. Madriani.” I turn to see a different woman. Clear hazel eyes. She holds my card in her left hand as she extends her right toward me. “Trisha Scott,” she says. “I’m told you have some personal business to discuss?”

She is blond, her hair cropped in a kind of pixie cut that gives her tall, slender body a fairy-tale elegance. Her face is angular, bearing a becoming smile. She reminds me of a taller version of Meg Ryan, a kind of bewitching look that asks questions even in silence.

“How do you do?” I take her hand, just the fingertips, and give it a gentle shake as she continues to study my card. “I’m sorry to bother you. I suspect you’re busy, but I wanted to talk with you before I headed back to the Coast.”

“Will it take long? I only have a few minutes,” she says.

“That’ll be fine.” Anything to get my foot in the door.

“How can I help you?” She wants to do it here, standing at the reception desk.

I glance over my shoulder toward the receptionist. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“My office,” she says.

I follow her past reception and down a long corridor with offices on each side. Here the paneled mahogany walls are adorned with colonial lithographs elegantly framed and set off by small brass-covered museum lights. This is the “holy of holies,” province of former senators and senior partners, where most of the offices are double-doored with occasional cubicles carved into the elegance for minions, the obligatory personal assistant or executive secretary.

She leads me to another elevator, this one small and private. We descend one floor and exit into a rabbit warren of cubicles, clerical and other assistants in the center. Around these are arranged offices on the outside walls, where windows with views and natural light are the perks of junior partners and associates on the move, either up or out.

From the exterior appearance, these offices are not nearly as elegant as those on the level above. Still, they are large, judging by the distance between doors. Enough room to accommodate a good-size desk, filing cabinets, probably a credenza against the windows, and a view.

Halfway down the corridor, she turns to the right and enters an open office door. I follow her.

We are no sooner inside than she closes the door behind me. “San Diego,” she says, still looking at my card. “I recognize your name. You’re the lawyer representing the man who killed Terry.” Her countenance is less pleasant now.

“Carl Arnsberg. He stands accused,” I say.

“Of course. I don’t see how I can help you, but have a seat.” She offers me one of the client chairs across from her desk. The office is neat, not large, but there’s that view, what must be toward the west, as I can see a plane descending into what I assume is Dulles International in the distance.

She settles into the chair behind the desk, crosses one leg over the other, her hands set securely on the arms of the chair as if she were about to take a ride. “I figured sooner or later someone would show up. I pictured an investigator, not the lead defense counsel,” she says.

“I was in New York. I looked at our list of possible witnesses as well as those the state might call, and your name popped up,” I tell her.

“Why would you want to call me-as a witness, I mean?”

“I don’t know that I do.”

“I see. The police did talk to me. An investigator from San Diego. That was about…” She thinks for a moment, then riffles some pages on her desk calendar. “About two months ago now. What took you so long?” she asks.

I could say it was the absence of a good defense theory, but I don’t. “Can you tell me what they wanted to talk about?”

“Hmm?”

“The cops.”

“Oh.” She smiles. “Three guesses, and the first two don’t count,” she tells me.

“Your relationship with Scarborough.”

She nods. “Were we lovers?” she says. “I told them what I’m telling you, that the bloom was already off that particular rose. At one time we were what you might call an item, but that ended more than a year ago. I’ve been seeing other men, and I assume that Terry had someone else. We were still friends. I saw him occasionally at social events. We ran in the same circles. But that was all.”

“So you weren’t seeing each other at the time he was killed?”

“No.”

“Do you mind telling me how the two of you met?”

She has to think about this. “I believe it was at a dinner. A judicial affair, the circuit court if I remember right. That must have been three or four years ago now. Someone introduced us. One thing led to another, Terry called me up, and we started seeing each other.”

“You dated? How long?”