But none of those cases were where he needed his brain to be today. Today was all about Serge Raoul. He was a thirty-eight-year-old charged with felony assault who John had to prep for court. Normally, he’d meet with a client four or five times before the big show. He’d have clocked anywhere from ten to twenty hours of face time with them. But Raoul was rougher around the edges than most people. This would already be John’s seventh time meeting with him and lately the meetings had more the feel of a play rehearsal than they did a legal meeting. Raoul seemed almost passionately committed to perjuring himself on the stand. If he didn’t stick to the talking points that John had painstakingly prepared for him this time, John might have to go the rare route of not letting his client testify. Raoul had a motor mouth and a very twisted way of viewing the truth. There was no telling how the jury would perceive him.

He didn’t usually like to overprepare his clients, because then they could come off as rehearsed, like the truth was something they’d had to memorize. But in this case, as John carefully packed the flash cards he’d made into his messenger bag, he figured that might be the lesser of two evils. He refused to let Raoul run roughshod over the stand and get himself sent up.

John didn’t allow himself another look at his cell phone before he slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. He had work to do. A man’s freedom to salvage.

IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, when he was out at a bar close to the Brooklyn Supreme Court with Richie on the barstool beside him, that John got the next text from Mary.

Michael Fallon.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John muttered. Michael Fucking Fallon? Was his mother playing some sort of sick joke on Mary?

Hard veto.

Why?

Drug dealer.

You’re joking.

Wish I were.

Which kind of drugs?

John gaped at the text, trying to interpret her response. Does it matter?

Well, sometimes people have good reasons for doing bad things, she texted back after a few minutes. In my opinion, there’s a difference between selling dime bags and selling heroin.

John barked a laugh into the palm of his hand. He’d expected blonde, obviously rich Mary to go screaming toward the hills at any mention of the D word. Huh. Maybe she’d gotten really into Breaking Bad or The Wire or something.

Besides, she texted again. Innocent until proven guilty.

He shook his head at his phone, feeling weird. Maybe he should stop at one beer tonight; he was already a little bit light-headed. He flagged down Marissa, their usual bartender, and ordered a basket of fries while he one-handedly texted Mary back.