“Your contestant, the good Dr. Mendavey, is an extremely intelligent, highly motivated, egocentric young lady driven to prove and re-prove herself. And possibly impress her parents…if they’re still alive. All she cares about is accomplishment. Accomplishment upon accomplishment upon accomplishment. I sound like a psychiatrist and I am obviously not, but this conceited, self-centered woman is a classic case of someone with a tremendous ego who considers him or herself…how shall I say it…godlike. Completely above the fray. I’ve seen dozens of them in court. That’s why I speak with authority. Also, she knows as well as you do that you’re running out of time. Mendavey will hold up your taping any way she can think of. The good doctor knows she can hang you and your show out to dry, and believe me,” said the producer’s lawyer, Sigmond Levy, “she will. Dr. Mendavey also knows it’s horrible publicity for the show and for the network if you try to get rid of her so you can execute a contestant you know will fail. It’s the kind of publicity you absolutely do not need or want, and Dr. Mendavey knows that as well as you do. The good doctor will take fifty million dollars to leave…”

“Oh, she will, will she.”

“…and she promises to leave quietly. Mum’s the word as far as she’s concerned. Or use her. Those are your two choices when it comes to the good Dr. Mendavey.”

“Has she spoken to a lawyer, Sig?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“So all of this, so far, has been between you and the good doctor?”

“That is correct.”

There was silence in the big office while the producer thought. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was staring at the ceiling. “Tell me this, Sig. Why would such a bright woman with such a brilliant future ahead of her want to try out for The Big Question? What I mean is—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said the lawyer Sigmond Levy. “You want to know why Dr. Mendavey would take a chance on being executed. The answer to your question in my opinion is this. The possibility of her being executed has never entered her mind. As far as she’s concerned, her dying is a total non sequitur. Remember, she’s a brain surgeon, and all brain surgeons think they’re God.”

“Well, she’s not and—”

“And… she knows she’ll win. One way or the other. Mr. Producer, I’m afraid the good doctor’s got you by the balls.”

“The fuck she does.”

Two days after the production meeting, the following conversation took place in a marshland off the New Jersey Turnpike.

“Morris.”

“What now?”

The two men spoke to each other through the open windows of their automobiles.

“I need another favor.”

“When?”

“This week.”

“That’s short notice. It’ll cost ya.”

“Just do it.”

“Give me the details.”