There actually isn’t much for me to finish up after court. In my prior life as a prosecutor, other cases piled up while I was on trial, so as soon as one verdict was rendered, I was right back in the salt mine. But this time, I have no other cases. I have no job, in fact. I chuckle to myself that the only post-trial things I have to do are to reach out to Karen and get another spot at Lava and make sure that Allison hasn’t given away my Wednesday and Thursday appointment slots.

“Yes,” I say to my father, “Gabriel and I would be happy to do you that honor.”

“Great. Per Se at one?”

“Dad, not Per Se. Please.”

“My treat, my choice,” he says.

Per Se is probably the last place on earth I’d ever take Gabriel for a meal. Not only because of the $375-per-person price tag—before alcohol, tax and tip, so it’s closer to $500, all in. I’m also relatively certain that if they have beef on the menu, the chef will refuse to cook it more done than medium, no matter how much we’re paying for the privilege.

I prepare Gabriel for the fact that it’s not going to be a burger-and-fries situation. In fact, he’s not going to be able to order at all. Per Se serves only a nine-course tasting menu. It changes every day, and no single ingredient is ever repeated throughout the meal.

“Fantastic,” Gabriel says. “Is there a McDonald’s close by, in case I get, you know, hungry?”

“You’ll eat your five-hundred-dollar lunch like a man,” I say back. “Oh, and you need to wear a suit jacket, I think. Do you have one in your office?”

“This keeps getting better and better,” he says. But he’s smiling.

Needless to say, my father gets a prime table, even though I’m certain he made the reservation earlier today. Despite its astronomical price tag, Per Se is among the toughest reservations to secure in the whole city. The room befits a restaurant of grandeur. Not only is every last detail attended to, but also nearly two hundred feet of the eastern wall is glass, providing a view out over Columbus Circle to Central Park.

My father has taken the liberty of ordering champagne. As soon as we’re seated, a waiter attentively fills each of our flutes.

“To . . . justice being done, and to those who did it,” my father says, his glass raised.

After completing the toast, we each take a sip of the champagne. I know it’s not Gabriel’s favorite alcoholic beverage, but he plays along.

The first course arrives with much fanfare, as no fewer than four waiters accompany the three dishes. They are placed before us simultaneously, with the odd man out describing what’s on the plate.