Below all the papers, of course, lurked the presence of his client, a beefy stockbroker, as he remembered, probably long out of his neck-brace by now, but still the innocent victim of pain and suffering then, all because of a machine-shop foreman’s nightly inability to get past the local cocktail lounge.

They would probably settle the case in the corridors before it was called. But in case they did not, he must dig it all up now, like some sort of legal archeologist, and try to breathe life into an incident three years old, in which he had not the slightest interest.

His back ached. He shifted in his leather chair, squirmed, and tried to concentrate. Q: And as you approached the light, did you see it change to yellow? A: No, sir. Q: Did you at any time observe the stoplights on the plaintiff’s car—"

Through the open window, from twenty-two stories down, he heard voices. He peered out. It was a clutch of kids in orange robes, with shaven heads. They had been chanting on the corner of Powell and Sutter for almost a month. They had become part of the scenery. He had wondered how they stood the tedium of it all: hare krishna, hare krishna, hare krishna, day after day. But the chanting was no more tedious than the pile of shit on his desk.

He closed the window. The telephone on his desk was flashing. It was Bernie, from the Hall of Justice.

“Mitch, you sitting down?”

“OK. What is it?”

The jury on the malpractice case had found in full. The young judge, incredibly, was letting the judgment stand. He almost dropped the phone.

“Say again?”

“The whole million fucking five, Mitchel!”

His hands went clammy. He tried to picture their happy client, getting the news in her iron coffin, but the surgeon’s stubby hands intruded. "Jesus!"

Bernie began to issue orders like an admiral. Mitch was to have Kitty, Bernie’s secretary, call the Examiner, before their deadline. Then Mitch and Lindy were to meet him at the airport. “What-ho for Cannery Row. It’s champagne and lobster for lunch.”

They had flown to Monterey for lunch before, to celebrate lesser victories. This time Mitch did not feel like going at all. But Lindy, who had loyally cooled on the surgeon when Mitch reported the bloodbath in the restaurant, would enjoy it, so he agreed.