“Just my part of it. You don’t have to worry. But my slander trial is set for next Wednesday.”

“Next Wednesday? That’s only”—she counts swiftly on her fingers—“six days from now!”

“Yep.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I expected a quick trial date, but I thought I’d get at least a month. Simply going through the materials I’ve requested under discovery could take a month.”

“How can the judge set a date like that?”

“Easily. She’s in Marston’s pocket. Why do you think he picked her?”

“Picked her? I thought they assigned judges by drawing lots or something.”

“In this district they match cases to judges by simple rotation. Theoretically, whichever judge’s name is up when a suit is filed gets that case. But all the clerk has to do to steer a case to a particular judge is hold on to it until that judge’s turn comes up. One phone call from Marston to the clerk would do it.”

“How do you know he has Franklin in his pocket? Maybe he just has the clerk.”

“I talked to a local lawyer I went to school with. Marston was the heavy hand in getting Franklin elected. Big contributions, an endorsement, words in the right ears. That was eight years ago, but she won’t have forgotten who put her on the bench.”

“But how can she possibly defend that trial date? No one could build a defense that fast.”

“In my answer to Marston’s complaint, I stated that my defense would be truth. Truth is the oldest defense against a slander charge. By definition, truth cannot be slanderous. If Franklin is challenged about the trial date, she’ll say, ‘The defendant doesn’t dispute that he uttered the alleged slander. He claims that his statements are true. Therefore, let him prove that without delay. Leo Marston’s reputation should not suffer any more than it already has while Mr. Cage goes on a fishing expedition.’ She can also cite the racial violence in the community resulting from my charges.”

Caitlin is shaking her head. “Shit. You’re in a deep hole.”

“Will you help me wade through the materials I’ve requested in discovery?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get my reporters and interns going through the stuff as soon as you get it.”

She digs into her windbreaker pocket, pulls out a Snickers bar, and tears open the wrapper. After two bites she freezes and looks guiltily at me.

“Sorry.” She offers me what’s left.

“That’s okay. You eat it.”

“Come on. It’s not like we haven’t already exchanged germs. Though that seems quite a while ago.”

I take it from her hand. “Thanks. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

The chocolate seems to be absorbed directly though the lining of my mouth, giving me an instant sugar buzz.