“Judge Goldstein is hearing the case?” Stone’s heart sank. Goldstein’s wife had been injured in a collision with a drunk driver a couple of years back, and he was known as a hanging judge where DUIs were concerned.

“Isn’t that lucky?” Dierdre said. “What sort of deal did you have in mind, Stone?”

“I was thinking a written apology to the officer and community service,” Stone said hopefully. It was only an opening gambit.

“Tell you what: If he pleads out, I won’t ask for the death penalty.”

“Heh, heh,” Stone said.

“I’m glad you find this amusing. So do I.”

“Come on, Dierdre, give me a break here, will you?”

“The poor cop didn’t get much of a break, did he? There he was, just doing his duty, protecting the public from a driver too drunk to stand up straight—”

“All right, spare me,” Stone said, throwing up his hands in surrender. “What can you do for me, Dierdre?”

“How about three to five in Attica?” she proposed.

“Dierdre, please. Let’s be realistic; nobody died.”

“Have you ever been kicked in the balls, Stone?”

“Once, a long time ago.”

“I’m glad you had the experience. I was going to do it myself, just so you’d know the pain involved. Was it fun?”

“No, it hurt a lot.”

“Funny, that’s what the cop said. He’ll be using a cane to make his court appearance today.”

“Why don’t we spare him the court appearance, Dierdre? Make me an offer I can take to my client.”

“Six months and no license for five years.”

“Dierdre . . .”

“He’s lucky I don’t want his license for life.”

“Dierdre . . .”

“Propose what you feel is an appropriate punishment, Stone, all things considered.”

“He doesn’t deserve to go to jail, Dierdre.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“Let me explain something else: I’ve been retained by a branch of the federal government that I cannot name. He was doing their bidding at the time he was arrested.”

Dierdre clapped a hand to her breast. “Oh, God, he was drunk and violent for the CIA, is that what you’re telling me? I gotta admit, I’ve never heard that one before, though it’s right up there with the dog ate his driver’s license.”

“Shhhh,” Stone said, making tamping motions with his hands. “I didn’t say that, and you mustn’t repeat it.”

“Is that your way of saying he actually was working for the CIA?”

“I can’t go there,” Stone said, pleading in his voice. “Please believe me when I tell you.”

“All right, Stone,” she said. “Since it’s you, and you’re a pretty good lay when no one is watching, here’s my best offer: thirty days at Rikers, a thousand-dollar fine, and his license in my desk drawer for three years.”