“Morning,” Aifric said.

That earned her a flick of the eyes, a faint air of irritation, and a begrudging “Morning” in return. Aifric proffered the cappuccino.

“It’s really coming down outside. I thought you might have trouble getting out for your morning cup.”

Delores looked briefly at the coffee as if the gesture were the most outlandish thing she had ever seen. “Thanks,” she said. She didn’t touch the cup.

It didn’t matter—Aifric was already busy scanning the files on Delores’s desk. If Gilmartin was drinking again, he’d probably be on a bender for days, and completely out of action as far as his caseload was concerned. The week’s work would have to be reassigned to whichever trial attorney in chambers was available to pick it up. And thanks to the gossiping gobshites in the coffee line, Aifric just might be the first one in a position to take advantage.

“I was wondering if you had any returned files yet, for the week ahead? I’ll be here for about forty minutes, then I’m off to court. So if you have any cases on today’s list, I’d be happy to take them now. I’ll have time—only just—to read the briefs before call-over.”

Delores raised an eyebrow with a disapproving look. She was good at her job—she routinely chivvied, bullied, and flattered the senior trial attorneys into some sort of structure—but it was widely known that she didn’t like female trial attorneys and diverted cases away from them wherever she could.

“I thought I’d wait. Assign the work according to seniority.”

“Of course, though, if you’re thinking of Mark, I’m sure he said he was going straight to court this morning.”

Mark was the other junior, Aifric’s direct competition and Delores’s favorite. Delores tutted, huffed a bit, then reluctantly pushed the little stack of blue files in Aifric’s direction.

“I was thinking . . . the commercial work . . .” Aifric eyed up the orange-colored files that remained behind the desk. Orange meant commercial; blue meant criminal defense—so orange was where the money was. But Delores’s hand, her knuckles swollen from arthritis, fingernails painted blood-clot red, came down hard.

“The commercial goes to Bannon.”

“Of course.”

Aifric flashed her most gracious smile, picked up the blue bundle, and retreated. It wasn’t an outright win, but it was something. Paying work. She would have skipped to her desk if it wasn’t undignified.

She hung her damp coat on the coatrack, sat down in her chair, and took a sip from her rapidly cooling coffee. She pulled the files toward her. Brian Gilmartin, despite his intermittent problems with alcohol, still ran a quality practice. Most of his caseload was High Court commercial stuff. He wasn’t known for criminal-defense work, and he would surely represent only those who could pay. Which meant white-collar crime, or, more likely, traffic offenses of the wealthy.

There were three files in her little bundle, all of them thin and insubstantial, promising nothing more than minor charges. She opened one to find a dangerous driving charge against a double-barreled name she recognized from the business section of the Irish Times. Aifric read the file and made careful notes, feeling a little leap of satisfaction. She could almost certainly get this down to a speeding conviction with a fine. That would be a win. Double-Barrel might even be grateful enough to send another bit of work her way.