Dead Even

Chapter 6

“HELLO, I’M LOOKING FOR CLAIRE DONIGER,” SARA said, reading the name off her legal pad.

“This is she,” Doniger sang in a voice that was eager to please from years of cocktail parties and hoarse from years of cigarette smoking.

“Hi, Ms. Doniger, this is Sara Tate from the district attorney’s office. I spoke to you yesterday about your burglary.”

“Yes, of course,” Doniger said. “How are you?”

“Everything is fine here. We’re moving forward on your case, and I was just wondering if we could go through the story one more time.”

“Well, I just don’t know what there is to tell. I was dead asleep, and at about three-thirty in the morning, I heard my doorbell ring. So I got up to answer it. When I looked through the peephole, I saw a police officer. And when I opened the door, he was standing there with a young man who he said just robbed my house. I was naturally shaken, and I said there must be a mistake. Then he held out my watch and my sterling golf ball and asked me if they were mine.”

“And were they yours?” Sara asked, writing notes on a legal pad.

“Without question. I recognized them that instant. The watch was a 1956 Ebel that my father bought as a twenty-fifth-anniversary gift for my mother – they stopped making the platinum version that same year. And the golf ball was a thank-you gift from my breast cancer organization – I did some fund-raising work for their celebrity golf tournament. My name is etched into the bottom of it. Apparently, the young man had just stolen them, and the officer caught him as he was walking up our block.”

Remembering Conrad’s advice to ignore the complaint report and to always ask broad, open-ended questions, Sara asked, “How did the officer know to pick up Mr. Kozlow?”

“That’s his name? Kozlow?” Doniger asked.

“That’s him – our favorite criminal,” Sara joked, hoping to keep Doniger upbeat and talkative. “Now how did the officer know to pick him up?”

“Well, from what the officer told me, he received a radio message that someone had seen a prowler leave my house.”

“Do you know who made that initial call to the police?”

“My neighbor from across the street. Patty Harrison. Her brownstone faces mine. She told me she couldn’t sleep, so she was up having a late-night snack. Or so she says.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt her?”

“She’s a little busybody. Knows everyone’s business. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was staring out her window just to see who on the block was coming home late. Anyway, she apparently saw the man leave my house. She thought he looked suspicious, so she called the police and gave them a description. Luckily, the officer was walking up Madison, so he just turned the corner and picked him up. Incredible, if you ask me.”

“It definitely was,” Sara agreed. Looking over her notes, she tried to picture all of the events, frame by frame. Slowly, her mind played through each individual fact, searching for any detail she might have missed. Eventually she asked, “Ms. Doniger, does your house have an alarm system?”

“Pardon?”

“Your house. Does it have an alarm system?”

“Yes, it does. But I must’ve forgotten to turn it on that night, because it didn’t go off.”

“And were there any other visible signs of entry? Any broken windows? Any other entrances he could’ve gotten through besides the front door?”

“Not that I can think of. No,” Doniger said. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m late for a meeting with some friends. Can we finish this another time?”

“Actually, I think that about covers it,” Sara said. “Hopefully, we can go over this one more time before the grand jury meets on Monday.”

“Yes. Certainly,” Doniger said. “We can talk about it later.”

When Sara hung up the phone, she made a few more notes to herself on the legal pad.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Guff warned as he walked into the office.

“Do what?”

“Take notes like that. You’re never supposed to take notes.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because in New York, any prior recorded information from someone that you intend to call as a witness must be turned over to the defense before the trial. So you’re better off not writing anything down.”

“Are you telling me that if my witness changes her story between now and the trial, the defense can use these notes to make us look like fools in court?”

“That’s the law,” Guff said. He tossed a file folder on Sara’s desk. “By the way, I got the information you wanted about the other new ADAs.” As Sara opened the folder, Guff explained, “There were eighteen other ADAs who started the same day as you. So far, every single one of them has managed to get themselves at least a couple of cases. I split them up by category.”

Reading through the list, Sara saw that everyone had a minimum of three misdemeanor cases. In addition, nine of her colleagues had felony cases, and two were assisting on homicides. “Damn,” Sara said. “Why is everyone in New York so competitive?”

“Nature of the game, baby. In this city, the moment you think about doing something, there are already five hundred people waiting in line for it.” Guff waved his arms through the air in a wide circular motion. “This may look stupid, but right now, there are at least a dozen other people in this town doing the exact same thing. Original thoughts don’t exist in New York. That’s the beauty of the ambitious beast.”

“And it’s about to take a bite out of my butt.”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. When the cutbacks were announced, every slacker in this office started looking productive.”

“Then maybe I should turn it up even more. Maybe I can get some more cases.”

“It’s not how many you have, it’s how many you win,” Guff said. “And considering you already have five, I wouldn’t take any more.”

“But I’m going to plead out two of those…”

“Sara, what do you think’s more impressive: handling a dozen cases and being overwhelmed, or handling five cases professionally and by the book?”

“In this city? I’ll go with the twelve.”

“C’mon, you know that’s not true.”

“I know, it’s just-”

“You’re tempted to grab more cases. I understand. But trust me, the more balls you try and juggle, the more likely you’re going to drop them all. Plead out the losers, stick with your good cases, and win whatever you keep. That’s the way to get noticed.”

“So if it looks like we have a chance, we go for the win, and if it looks like we’re in trouble, we cop the plea.”

“That’s the Colonel’s secret recipe,” Guff said. “Follow that and you’ll never lose.”

As a staff member in the DA’s public-information office, Lenore Lasner spent most of her time talking to reporters and private citizens about the inner workings of the office. They asked her about the outcomes of certain cases. They asked her about the qualifications of certain judges. And every once in a while, they asked her about a particular assistant district attorney.

“Sara Tate, Sara Tate,” Lenore said as she scrolled through the directory. “I don’t think I have her here.”

“She just started on Monday,” the man said as he leaned against the counter and stared at Lenore’s long, manicured fingernails. He had a deep voice that weighed heavily in the air and sunken cheeks that made him look sickly.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Lenore asked. She turned to the back of the directory, where a single sheet of paper was stapled to the inside back cover. “Tate, Tate, Tate,” she said as her fingernail ran down the list. “Here she is.”

“Very pretty nails,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Lenore said with a slight blush. “Now, what do you need to know about ADA Tate?”

“I just want to know where her office is.”

“We’re actually not supposed to give out that information. I can give you her phone number, though.”

“That’d be great. And if I could bother you for some paper and a pen to write with…”

“I have that right here.” As Lenore turned around to get a notepad from her desk, the man looked down at the directory. Next to Sara’s name was her phone number, and next to that were her address and room number: 80 Centre Street. Room 727.

“Y’know what? I just remembered I have her phone number,” the man said. “I’ll give her a call later.”

“Are you sure?” Lenore asked as she returned to the counter.

“Positive,” the man said. “I know exactly where it is.”

“Are you okay?” Kathleen asked the moment Jared returned to the office. He looked terrible, his complexion ashen.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “My lunch didn’t agree with me.” After entering his office, Jared closed the door behind him, collapsed in his chair, hit the do-not-disturb button on his phone, and put his head down on his desk. Who could he call? He wanted to tell the police. Or the feds. His brother knew someone in the FBI. But he couldn’t get Rafferty’s warning out of his head. And more than anything else, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sara. No matter the threat, no matter the moral consequences, he knew he’d do anything – anything at all – to protect his wife. For Sara’s own safety, he had to tell her. As he picked up the phone, though, he realized how impossible it’d be to keep Sara quiet. The moment she found out, she’d go right to her friends in the DA’s office. And if she confronted Rafferty, it would only make things worse. For both of them. More important, Rafferty might already be listening. That’s impossible, Jared argued with himself – it’s too soon. With the right equipment, however, they could do it without ever entering the office. Putting down the receiver, Jared was frozen. He couldn’t win.

Then he grabbed the phone, and before he could talk himself out of it, dialed Sara’s number. He had to tell her.

“ADA Tate’s office,” Guff answered. “Can I help you?”

“This is Jared – Sara’s husband. Is she around?”

“Hey, Jared. Sorry, she’s out of the office. Can I take a message?”

“Can you please tell her to call me as soon as she gets in? It’s an emergency.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just tell her that I want to talk to her. It’s important.” As Jared hung up the phone, there was a loud knock on his door. Before he could say “I’m busy,” the door opened and Marty Lubetsky walked in.

“Where’ve you been all day?” Lubetsky asked. “I’ve been leaving messages since this morning.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve been swamped.”

“So I hear. I just got a call from Oscar Rafferty.”

“You know him?” Jared asked.

“As much as you can know someone in a three-minute phone conversation. He called and told me that he’s retained you for an acquaintance of his.”

“Why’d he call you?”

“To make sure you’d have enough time to work on the case. To be honest, I thought you put him up to it. He knew I was your supervisor and said the only reason he came to us was because of your good reputation. He said that if things work out with this case, he might throw all of his business our way. And it sounds like he has a good deal of potential business.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?”

“You bet it would,” Lubetsky said. “Anyway, I just wanted to say congrats. I’m sorry about yesterday, but it looks like you’re turning things around. Keep at it.”

“I’ll try,” Jared said as Lubetsky left the office.

Jared reached into his pocket and pulled out the matchbook from the club. Gold letters spelled out TWO ROOMS. He hit the intercom button on his phone.

“What’s up?” Kathleen asked.

“I need a quick favor. There’s a club called Two Rooms on East Fifty-eighth Street. Can you ask Barrow to run a quick search on it and tell me what comes up?”

“No problem,” Kathleen said. “Who should I bill it to?”

“No one. I’m paying for this myself.”

“What’d you find?” Jared asked as he anxiously leaned toward his speakerphone twenty minutes later.

“Did you get the fax?” Barrow said from the phone.

Before Jared could answer, Kathleen entered his office holding a small pile of papers. “Here you go,” she said, dropping them on his desk.

Jared flipped through the stack of press clippings and real-estate records.

“You’re welcome,” Kathleen said. He still didn’t respond. She was tempted to say something, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Instead, she left the office, closing the door behind her.

“As you can see, it’s just the usual high-society nonsense,” Barrow explained. “There’s no sign out front, but it’s somehow still known by all the right people. And it used to be called Le Club, until someone finally had the good sense to change the name. Otherwise, the only things I can find are society column mentions and a few restaurant reviews. It’s a serious place, J – superexclusive. Apparently, it’s impossible to get in, which means the Ladies Who Lunch casually stalk the place on a regular basis.”

“Is it private membership only?”

“Don’t know – they weren’t answering the phone. If you want, the number’s on the top sheet.”

“Thanks,” Jared said, still distracted.

“Also, I looked up your friend Kozlow. Have you seen his file yet?”

“We’re still waiting for it to come over from his old attorneys. Anything interesting?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it interesting, but I’ll tell you one thing: The guy is one sick bastard. Anyone who uses a screwdriver to-”

“I’ll read it myself,” Jared interrupted.

“You have to hear this, though. He took a screwdriver and-”

“Lenny, please, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

There was a short pause on the other line. Finally, Barrow asked, “Does this have anything to do with what got you so upset at lunch?”

“How do you know I was upset at lunch?”

“Kathleen. She said you came back a mess.”

“That’s not even true. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“J, we’ve been at this a long time. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not,” Jared insisted. “And even if I was, I’d never do it to you. Now how much do I owe you for the research?”

“You think I’d take money from you? If I did that, Sara would starve,” Barrow said with a deep laugh. “If it’s important and it’s personal, it’s free. Just make sure you get the next dinner check.”

“Thanks, Lenny.”

“No big deal. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Jared hung up the phone and dialed the number for Two Rooms.

“Two Rooms. Can I help you?”

Jared recognized the voice of the uniformed attendant. “Hi, I wanted to get some information on your club. Is it private, or is it open to the public?”

“We’re open to the public, sir,”

“So that room downstairs – anyone can rent that for lunch?”

“Sorry, we’re not open for lunch. Just for dinner.”

Confused, Jared said, “I was just there an hour ago. I had a meeting with Oscar Rafferty.”

There was a short pause on the other line. Then the attendant said, “There haven’t been any meetings today.”

“Sure there were,” Jared insisted. “I even recognize your voice – you’re the guy who walked me downstairs.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Believe me, there was no meeting.” A moment later, Jared heard a click. The attendant had hung up.

What the hell is going on? Jared wondered.

As he walked home from the subway, Jared felt exhausted. Throughout the entire commute home, he had looked over his shoulder at least thirty times, trying to see if someone was following him. On the subway, he had cut through three different cars, and just before the doors slammed shut, he had gotten off at the Seventy-second Street stop rather than his usual Seventy-ninth. As he headed up Broadway, he checked his reflection in every storefront window he passed to see if anyone was nearby. He then spontaneously started running. Not jogging. Full-speed running. Moving as fast as he could, he made an abrupt right on Seventy-eighth and ducked into the first doorway he came to – a narrow service entrance for the corner grocery store. But from what he could tell, no one was in pursuit. Maybe Rafferty was bluffing, Jared thought as he approached his home. Maybe it was just a threat to keep him in line.

Jared walked into his building and pulled out his keys to check the mail. At his feet, he heard a quiet crunching. Looking down, he noticed shards of broken glass scattered around the small alcove. He used his foot as a makeshift broom and swept the glass into one corner. On his way upstairs, he stepped over more shards of glass. He saw the source of the broken glass at the top of the stairs: The large framed picture of sunflowers on the landing was smashed to pieces. Then he noticed that the front door to his apartment was ajar. A cold chill ran down his back as he stepped forward cautiously. Ignoring the crushed glass beneath his feet, he looked up and down the short hallway and checked the next flight of stairs to make sure he was alone. There was no one in sight. Slowly, Jared opened the door and peeked inside.

The first thing he noticed was the overturned oak bookshelves that he and Sara had spent so much time putting together. Then the country pine chairs that had been thrown in the corner. Then the matching table that was flipped over. Then the ransacked kitchen.

He headed for the living room, stepping over the hundreds of books that covered most of the floor. His Bogart poster was pulled from the wall, the cushions had been ripped from the armchair, the sofa was turned on its side, the halogen lamps were knocked over, the glass coffee table was shattered, the TV was facedown on the floor, the videotapes were scattered everywhere, and the plants were tipped over, their soil spilling onto the carpet. Although all six of Sara’s portraits of Jared were still hanging on the wall, their glass frames had been shattered. Oh, my God, Jared thought as he looked around the room. Not a single item had gone untouched.

As he searched for the phone to call the police, Jared heard a blunt thud from the bedroom. Someone was still in the house. Jared scrambled to the corner of the living room and ducked behind the overturned sofa. From there, he heard the intruder leave the bedroom and walk toward the kitchen. Heavy footsteps pounded against the hardwood floor. He heard the stranger picking through the kitchen drawers. In the center of the room, Jared spotted a silver letter opener. It wasn’t far. He had to get it. Slowly, Jared crawled forward, carefully avoiding the compact discs that were scattered everywhere. Praying that he wouldn’t hit a creaking floorboard, he picked up the letter opener. As silently as he could, he climbed to his feet. He still had the element of surprise on his side. But as Jared readied his makeshift weapon, he heard the stranger return to the bedroom.

Peeking out from the corner of the living room, Jared confirmed he was alone. He darted for the kitchen. Once there, he saw that every drawer had been shuffled through, and every cabinet had been searched and emptied. Holding tight to the letter opener, Jared leaned against the refrigerator and caught his breath. He was a sweaty mess. Hold it together, he told himself. Deep breaths.

Ten seconds later, he left the kitchen. Quietly, he walked toward the closed door of his bedroom. As he got closer, he could hear the muffled sounds of frantic rummaging. From what he could tell, they were picking through the contents of the large dresser on the right side of the room. As anxiety gave way to anger, Jared arched the letter opener over his head and put a hand on the doorknob. He was shaking. On the count of three, he said to himself. One… two… Throwing the door open, Jared ran full speed into the bedroom. But as soon as he cleared the doorway, he felt something hit him in the shins. Someone had tripped him up. They were waiting for him. As he crashed to the floor, he let go of the letter opener. And before he could grab it, he heard a familiar voice say, “Are you nuts?”

Sara stood over him with a kitchen knife in her hands. “I thought you were the burglar,” she said as she dropped the knife. “I could’ve killed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jared said, climbing to his feet. He anxiously embraced his wife. “As long as you’re safe. Thank God you’re safe.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” Sara said.

“When did you get home?”

“About ten minutes ago,” Sara explained. “When I walked in, I almost fell over. I called the police, then came in here to see if they got my mom’s jewelry.”

“And?”

“Luckily, they missed it. From what I can tell, they took the cash from the top drawer of my dresser, the gold pocket watch Pop gave you, and some of our silver frames, but they never found the jewelry.” Walking into the living room, Sara took her second look at the devastated mess that was their apartment. While she turned the potted plants upright, Jared noticed that his Chinatown knife was pristinely placed on top of one of the sofa cushions.

He picked up the protective case that held his most prized collectible and noticed a small note taped to the bottom. His stomach dropped as he read the note’s three words: Shut your mouth.

“They must’ve thought it was a regular knife,” Sara said.

“Huh?”

“Your knife. If they’d known what it was, I’m sure they would’ve taken it.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Jared said as he pulled off the note and crumpled it in his hand.

Picking up the phone, Sara said, “I still can’t believe this. I start working for the good guys, and some lowlife decides to rip us off. I’m going to call Conrad to make sure-”

“No!” Jared said, cutting Sara off. Seeing the surprised look on his wife’s face, he added, “The police’ll be here soon enough. Then we can see what else is missing and figure it all out.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sara agreed as she picked up a pile of books from the living-room floor. “But let me tell you something: If we catch the bastards who did this, you better believe I’m going to prosecute them personally. You touch my junk and cause me heartache – you’re asking to be kicked in the head.”

“Yeah,” Jared said without emotion.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You look terrible.”

“What can I say? Our apartment just got broken into and our stuff’s all over the floor. Should I be thrilled with that?”

“Of course not. But look at the bright side – they were gone by the time we got here, no one was hurt, and in all likelihood, we’ll never hear from them again.”

“Yeah,” Jared said, all too aware that Rafferty wasn’t going away. “We sure are lucky.”

“Meanwhile, tell me why you called this afternoon. What was so important?”

Jared’s fist tightened around the note in his hand. “It was nothing.”

“Guff said it sounded urgent.”

“It was nothing,” Jared insisted. “Just an imagined crisis.”

By midnight, the police had come and gone, the apartment was dusted for fingerprints, and Jared and Sara had cleaned up most of their belongings.

“The cops seemed really thorough,” Sara said, lying down on the sofa.

“They’d better be.” Jared sat in his favorite chair. “You’re one of them now.” He was trying his best to act unaffected, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. If he did, something could happen. Something would happen. And it’d be his fault. It was in his hands. Searching for a smooth segue, he added, “By the way, now that we’re done with this whole mess, let me bring up another. I can’t step down from the Kozlow case.”

Sara shot up in her seat. “What do you mean ‘can’t’? You’re a grown man – you can do anything you want.”

“I’m serious. I can’t.”

“Why not? Does someone have a gun to your head?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “I just need to be on the case.”

“Don’t tell me that, Jared. You promised you’d-”

“I know what I said, but it’s not happening.”

“Listen, the only reason Kozlow picked you is because you’re my husband. He’s obviously toying with us.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, regardless of why I was picked, Lubetsky found out that the guy who’s paying the bill has deep pockets. He figures if I take the case, we can get his other business as well.”

“So let Lubetsky take the case. I’d love to smack his seven double chins across the courtroom.”

“Kozlow wants me. And Lubetsky said he’s not letting me off the case. I tried, honey. I really did try.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Sara said, raising her voice. “If you stay on this case, you’re messing with my career. And if I take a loss to my husband, I’m going to ruin my one pathetic chance to actually keep this job.”

“Just calm down a second.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You try spending six months sending out résumés to every firm in this city. You try getting two hundred and twenty-five rejection letters. In the legal market, I’m used goods. And since my self-esteem has already taken enough of a beating, I don’t need another one.”

“Hold on a second,” Jared said as he sat down next to his wife. “Do you really think I’m doing this to jeopardize your career? Sara, you’re the most important thing in the world to me. I’d never do anything to hurt you. I just…” Jared’s voice trailed off.

“You just what?”

“Nothing, I…”

“What?” Sara demanded. “Say it already.”

Jared paused a moment. Finally, he said, “Lubetsky told me that if I don’t take the case and bring this guy in as a client, I won’t make partner. I’ll be fired on the spot.”

Sara was stunned. “Are you kidding? He said that to you?”

“After what happened yesterday, this is his line in the sand. They’re voting on me in the next six months. In my six and a half years at the firm, I haven’t brought in a single client.”

“But you’ve handled some of their biggest-”

“Those were other people’s cases. Now I have to have my own cases. And the bottom line in a law firm is the bottom line. It may be a group of lawyers, but it’s still a business. If I can’t make that business grow, I’ll be in the same position you were six months ago.”

Sara was silent.

Hoping to exploit his opening, Jared continued to hammer away. “I don’t know what else to do. With all your loans, we can’t afford to-”

“They’re really going to fire you?”

“That’s what he said,” Jared replied. “I know it might hurt you if you lose, but by then, your office will realize what a thorough prosecutor you are. They’re not going to get rid of you just because you lost your first case.”

“Who said I’m going to lose?” Sara asked with a strained smile.

Jared breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, honey. I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything. If you’re on the opposite side, I’m still going to come at you with guns blazing.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

Sara got up from the sofa and followed her husband out of the room. As they walked toward the bedroom, Sara asked, “So if Kozlow’s not paying his own bill, who’s signing the check?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Jared said defensively as he entered the bedroom. “You’re the enemy.”

“Uh-oh, here we go,” Sara said. “Now the real battle begins.”

Leaning back in his seat and staring at the small black receiver on his desk, Rafferty smiled. “Well?”

“Sounds like round one goes to our boy,” the other man said as he took off his headphones. “He really knows how to pull her strings.”

“That’s why we picked him,” Rafferty said. “Now we just have to hope he can do the same thing in court.”

“And if he can’t?”

“I’m not entertaining that thought.”

“But Kozlow said-”

“Don’t even bring him up. I should put him through a wall for what he did.”

“And I’m sure you would – except for the small fact that he’d rip your head off first.”

Rafferty ignored the comment. “Don’t let him intimidate you. He was smart to go with the burglary idea, but that doesn’t solve our problems. Until Kozlow wins, we’re all in trouble. So regardless of what I have to do, he’s going to win.”

At a quarter to two in the morning, Jared was lying awake in bed. In the past hour, he had dozed off four times. But each time, just as he was about to lose consciousness, just as he was about to forget it all, he was jolted awake. And in that single moment, it all came back again. Each time, he instinctively turned to his wife. He watched the rise and fall of her chest to make sure she was breathing. That was all he cared about. As long as she was safe, he could handle the rest.

By seven o’clock Wednesday morning, Jared was standing on the subway platform, waiting for the train. Avoiding the edge of the platform, he spent most of his time checking over his shoulder and scanning the crowd. The man wearing the blue shirt and red tie looked unusually suspicious. So did the man wearing the olive suit. So did the woman reading the newspaper and the younger man with the headphones. Backing away from the crowd of strangers, Jared tried not to let his fears get the best of him. But as new commuters filled the platform, he found himself jumping at every random glance. Finally, he turned around, left the station, and hailed a cab.

By the time he arrived at the office, it was almost seven-thirty. Between the break-in, the bad night’s sleep, and the morning commute, he was mentally and physically drained. His eyes were tired, his shoulders sagged, and his stomach was still churning from lying to Sara. Without a doubt, he was in no shape to get an early start on the day. But if he was going to protect his wife, he knew he had a great deal of work ahead of him. Facing someone like Sara meant that every detail had to be accounted for. As he had learned from his very first appearance in court, a good attorney could take even the smallest opening and turn it into a victory.

Heading up the hallway, though, Jared wasn’t thinking about trial strategies or witness preparation or jury selection. Instead, he was still trying to recall every possible circumstance that required a lawyer to recuse himself from a case. When he reached Kathleen’s desk, he forced a smile.

“Good morning,” Kathleen said. “Starting early today?”

“Yeah,” Jared said. “Clear my calendar for the rest of the month. This Kozlow case just became top priority.”

“Why? It’s just a burglary.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not important,” he snapped.

“Take it easy. I’m only asking a question.”

Jared leaned on Kathleen’s desk and lowered his voice. “I don’t want anyone to know this, but the prosecutor on the case is Sara.”

“You’re facing your wife?” Kathleen blurted. Jared scowled.

“Believe me, I’d love to get off the case. That’s why I need your help. As far as I can figure, having a husband and wife against each other has to present some sort of conflict-of-interest problem. Ethically, it seems to be a minefield for everyone involved, especially the client. So I want you to get a legal assistant to go through the rules of professional conduct and double-check whether this sort of arrangement is prohibited.”

“Why not just take her on? We’ll bury her.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” Jared warned.

Kathleen stopped writing and looked up at her boss. “Take it easy, it’s a joke. I’ll let you know what they find.”

Turning toward his office, Jared took a deep breath. Maybe this will actually work out. As he opened the door, he heard someone say, “Hiya, boss. What’s on the agenda today?”

Kozlow was stretched out on the chair in the corner of Jared’s office. His feet were propped up on the wastebasket.

“How’d you get in here?” Jared asked, annoyed.

“Ancient Chinese secret,” Kozlow said. “I wouldn’t mention it to Kathleen, though. She strikes me as the type who hates surprises.”

Walking over to the chair, Jared stared down at his new client. “Let me tell you one thing,” he said as he pushed Kozlow’s feet from the wastebasket. “I know you were the ones who broke into my house.”

“Your house got broken into?” Kozlow asked innocently.

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Jared warned.

Kozlow shot up out of his seat, grabbed Jared by his tie, and dragged him forward. “Then don’t use that tone with me,” Kozlow shot back. He held on to Jared’s tie with a tight grip. “Do you understand?”

Jared nodded, shocked by the outburst.

“You have a job to do, and we want to make sure you do it. Don’t take it personally.”

“Here’s what I want,” Sara said, sitting at her desk as Guff took notes. “First, I want you to find out if a husband and wife can even face each other in court. That stinks more than a truckload of manure, so if you can find anything that says one of us has to recuse ourselves, maybe Jared will drop the case. Second, I want-”

“You’re scared of facing him, aren’t you?” Guff asked.

“Who, Jared? Not a chance. Why? Do I look scared?”

“Forget I even asked. Now, what else did you want?”

“I may be a little nervous, but I don’t think I’m scared.”

“Okay, I got it. You’re not scared.”

“I’m serious. It won’t affect me,” Sara insisted. When Guff didn’t reply, she added, “What do you expect me to say? Of course I’m scared.”

“Why? Just because he’s your husband?”

“There’s that, but there’s also the fact that things have a way of working out for Jared. They just fall into place for him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me put it to you this way: During our third year of law school, we took a class on the legal aspects of the American presidency. On the first day of class, the professor asked everyone in the lecture hall to stand up. Then, when everyone in this huge room was standing, he said, ‘Anyone who’s female, sit down. Anyone who was not born in the United States, sit down. Anyone who’s five-eleven or shorter, sit down.’ And one by one, the whole room started sitting down. When he was done with his list of questions, the only person still standing was Jared. And then the professor said, ‘This is the only person in this group who, except for the age requirement, is qualified to be president.’”

“So big deal. All it means is Jared’s squeaky clean and six feet tall.”

“That’s not just it, though. No matter how smart you are, or sneaky you are, or aggressive you are, Jared will always have an uncanny knack for making things work to his own advantage. That’s how he put himself through law school, and that’s why, despite the fact that he’s having trouble bringing in clients, he’s still close to making partner. It’s hard to explain, but he’s one of those guys who, even though he has to work hard at it, makes everything look easy.”

“I hate those guys,” Guff said.

“And I married one of those guys. Which means we’ll have to work even harder to win,” Sara said. “Anyway, back to business. I still want to get Doniger’s neighbor on the phone…”

“Patty Harrison,” Guff said.

“…get her on the phone so we can do an initial interview. She’s by far the best witness we have for the grand jury – she’s the only one who actually saw Kozlow leave the house. Third, I want to speak to Doniger again. We should make sure she’s fully prepped before we walk into the grand jury. And fourth… what was fourth?”

“You want to interview Officer McCabe again. He’s waiting out in the hallway.”

“What? He’s out there now?”

“As we speak,” Guff said. “You were busy running around yesterday, so I called him up and asked him when he could come in. He works late on Friday and through the weekend, so he asked if he could do it today.”

“Great,” Sara said. “Let him in.”

A minute later, Officer Michael McCabe walked into Sara’s office. He had sharp eyes and a tired, almost droopy mouth, and he was thinner than Sara had remembered from their encounter on the videophone. Removing his police cap to reveal a head of thick black hair, McCabe took a seat in front of Sara’s desk. “So how’s the office treating you?” he asked in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“Everyone’s been terrific,” Sara said as she flipped to a page of questions on her legal pad. “Now let’s go over your testimony for the grand jury. Tell me again what happened that night.”

“It was actually pretty simple. I cover the East Side, from Eightieth Street to Ninetieth, and from Lexington to Madison. So at about three-thirty in the morning, I get a call on my radio that someone just reported a burglary at 201 East Eighty-second. They describe the defendant, so I take off for Eighty-second Street.”

“You ran there?”

“Of course I ran there. I walk beat, remember?”

“Of course,” Sara said, trying her best to sound knowledgeable. “You walk beat.”

“Anyway, about two blocks from the crime scene, I spot someone who meets the defendant’s description, so I pick him up.”

“And what was that description?”

“Black jeans, long black leather jacket, goatee. He fit the description.”

“Was he doing anything else suspicious? Was he running? Did he resist arrest? Anything at all that made him look guilty?”

“At three-thirty in the morning, on an empty street, two blocks from the crime scene, he matched the physical description of the burglar perfectly,” McCabe said dryly. “What else do you want?”

“So you searched him right there?”

“Yeah. Found the watch, the golf ball, and the money.”

“Let’s do that again,” Sara said. “When I have you in the grand jury, they’re going to want more information than that.” Handing McCabe a copy of the complaint report, Sara started over. “Okay, Officer McCabe, now tell us what you found on the defendant.”

Reading from the sheet, McCabe answered, “A platinum Ebel watch, a sterling silver golf ball, and four hundred and seventeen dollars.”

“Perfect,” Sara said. “Just like that. Now, when you brought Kozlow back to 201 East Eighty-second Street, you woke up Ms. Doniger.”

“Yep. She didn’t even know she was robbed.”

“But she identified the items as her own?”

“Oh, yeah. She paused a second, but then she did. Her mother’s name was on the watch and her own name was on the golf ball.”

“Was anything else taken besides that and the money?”

“That’s all I could find, and that’s all Doniger said was missing. The way I figure it, Kozlow was grabbing stuff, and then for whatever reason, he got scared and ran.”

“And did you talk to Doniger’s neighbor, Ms. Harrison?”

“No,” McCabe said. “I didn’t know she was the one who called in the tip.”

“Wait a minute,” Sara said, looking up. “You never got a positive ID on the night of the crime?”

“I didn’t know the neighbor called it in.”

“Okay. That’s okay,” Sara said. “But you did get Doniger’s place fingerprinted?”

McCabe shook his head no. “I already had the suspect – I didn’t think I needed his prints.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sara asked. “Of course you need his prints. That’s probably the best way to prove he was in the house.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m not a detective. I just round ’em up and bring ’ em in. Besides, we’re on a budget. We don’t fingerprint every place there’s a crime. Unless there’s a body, or it’s a big case, Crime Scene stays at home and we follow up as best we can.”

“Well, that’s real helpful,” Sara said. “Remind me to thank the budget cutters when I lose the case.” Scanning her notes, she added, “Okay, just a few more questions. How long have you been friends with Victor Stockwell?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“An important one,” Sara insisted.

“I know who he is, but we’ve never met.”

Confused, Sara asked, “Then why’d you request him on the case?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“When I first picked up this case from ECAB, the booking sheet was marked for Victor. If you barely knew him, why’d you request him?”

“I didn’t request anyone,” McCabe said. “Victor asked me if he could have the case.”

Sara paused. “Really? Victor approached you?”

“Yeah, he called me a few hours after the arrest – while I was doing the paperwork. He said he wanted the Kozlow case and asked me to put his name on the file. I figured he had some personal interest in it, so I wrote him in.” When he saw the puzzled look on Sara’s face, he asked, “Is something wrong with that?”

“I don’t know,” Sara said. “That’s what I’ll have to find out.”

When McCabe left Sara’s office, she shut the door behind him and returned to her desk. There had to be an explanation for why one of the office’s best prosecutors wanted such a low-profile assignment. Struggling to come up with a list of possible reasons, she picked up a nearby paper clip, unbent it, and started wrapping it around her index finger. Maybe Victor thought the case was interesting. Maybe he wanted to lighten his workload. Maybe he knew one of the parties involved. Maybe he knew Claire Doniger, and he was doing her a favor. Or maybe he knew Kozlow. As she continued to twist the paper clip, she thought about all the reasons why she should keep her suspicions to herself. But as her finger turned a light purple, she realized she had no idea what her next step was. The office was still uncharted territory, and without question, she needed help.

Pulling off the paper clip, she looked for the intercom button on her phone. There wasn’t one – and this wasn’t her old firm. Leaning forward on her desk, she shouted, “Guff, can you come in here a second?”

When Guff arrived, Sara asked him to close the door.

“Uh-oh, what happened now?” he asked.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Let me guess: You want to see my secret list.”

“Your what?”

“My secret list of funny words. I know people’re talking about it. I put a couple on E-mail last week, and now everyone’s clamoring for the rest. I’m not giving them out, though. You’ll have to be satisfied with what you have: salami, wicker, Nipsey Russell-”

“Guff, please listen for a second. Remember when we were in ECAB the day I took the case?” Guff nodded. “When the cases were delivered, you were talking to Evelyn and Victor. So what you never saw was that Kozlow’s case was originally marked for someone else – that’s why I decided to take it.”

“So what’s the big deal? Cops request good ADAs all the time.”

“That’s exactly what I thought. But I just found out that it wasn’t the cop who requested this particular ADA – it was the ADA who requested the case.”

“Which ADA?”

Sara was silent.

“Tell me whose case it was, Sara. This isn’t funny. It can really be-”

“Victor’s,” she finally said. “It was Victor’s case.”

“Oh, no. Why’d you have to go do something stupid like that? That’s like teasing a rabid dog.”

“The delivery guy pulled off the Post-it. He said it was just a request – I didn’t know any better.”

“Obviously not.”

“Guff, I know it was a stupid move, but I can really use your help with this. There’s no one else I trust.”

“I don’t know. I think this one is out of my league. If I were you, I’d go to Conrad.”

“Conrad’ll bite my head off if he finds out I stole a case from another ADA.”

“Listen, it’s your decision. But if I was choosing between the two, I’d take Conrad over Victor any day.”

“How’d it go?” Conrad asked when Sara walked into his office.

“How’d what go?”

“Your talk with McCabe. Wasn’t that this morning?”

“Yeah,” Sara said, trying not to rush into anything. “It was pretty good. Not great.” As she took a seat on Conrad’s olive-green vinyl sofa, she asked, “Where’d you get this sofa?”

“Have Guff call down to purchasing. You’ll get one by next year,” Conrad said. “Now tell me about the interview.”

“What’s to tell? The cop seems like a nice guy, but he made some stupid mistakes. Never got fingerprints; never got an ID.”

“So typical – eighty percenter.”

“Huh?” Sara asked.

“In the DA’s office, twenty percent of the ADAs do eighty percent of the work,” Conrad explained. “The same thing applies to the judges in the courthouse and the cops and detectives on the street. To eighty percent of the people, this is just a nine-to-five bureaucracy.”

“It’s not a bureaucracy,” Sara said. “The people here-”

“Sara, do you know how many open warrants there are in Manhattan? Five hundred thousand. That means there are half a million criminals that we know about running loose on the streets – and then there are all the ones we still haven’t found. For the most part, we’re an assembly line. Eighty percent of the people just want their paycheck. They don’t want to risk their life and family to stop some scumbag criminal, and they don’t want to do what it actually takes to stop crime. It doesn’t make them bad people; it just makes them bad public servants.”

“And for some reason, you think I’m part of the twenty percent?” Sara asked.

“Actually, I do. You’re thirty-two years old, which means you know what you’re getting into. And at that age, like it or not, this is your career. You may be unpolished, and you may be new, but you speak your mind, and Guff trusts you, which, believe it or not, says more than you think. If you can get this indictment and take it to trial, Monaghan will know you’re not here to play around. And since I’m always looking for someone to stand on the twenty percent side of the scale, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you aboard. So tell me what else happened with the cop and I’ll tell you how to fix it.”

“Well, as I said, he never got an ID.”

“No big deal,” Conrad said. “Set up a lineup so the neighbor can come in and pick Kozlow out. If there’s no time, have her do it in the grand jury. Then the jurors can see it for themselves.”

“What about the fingerprints?”

“You’re screwed on that one.”

“Lousy eighty percenter,” Sara growled.

Conrad smiled. “Any other problems?”

Sara’s eyes fell to the floor. “Just one,” she said hesitantly. “There’s something I haven’t been completely honest about: When the case originally came into ECAB, there was a note on it that said, ‘Request for Victor Stockwell.’”

A suspicious crease formed between Conrad’s eyebrows. “What happened to the note?”

“The delivery guy took it off, and I let him throw it away,” Sara said. Before Conrad could interrupt, she added, “I know it was wrong, but I figured Victor gets so many requests, he wouldn’t miss one more. When I interviewed McCabe, though, I found out he didn’t mark the case for Victor – Victor requested the case from him.” As she finished the story, the room was silent. She could barely look Conrad in the eye.

Finally, Conrad leaned forward in his chair. “You really love to make it hard on yourself, don’t you?”

“That’s what I’m good at.” Looking up, she noticed that the crease between Conrad’s eyebrows was gone. “You’re not mad?” she asked.

“Sara, if you knew Victor wanted the case, would you have stolen it from him?”

“Not a chance. I only-”

“Then that’s that. I’d never fault you for trying to race to the front of the pack. If anything, that’s what we need more of.”

Conrad’s reaction wasn’t at all what she expected. Still processing it, she gave him an appreciative nod.

“You don’t have to worry,” he continued. “I’m on your side.”

The way he said it, Sara knew he wasn’t lying. “So what do I do about Victor?”

“Has he said anything to you about the case?”

“I know he’s pissed off, but he hasn’t asked for it back.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird? I mean, why would Victor even want this junky little case in the first place?”

“How should I know? People request cases all the time – most often because they want to get another shot at a repeat offender or because they know someone involved in the case. Maybe Victor’s the one who first prosecuted Kozlow and he’s still pissed that Kozlow walked. Maybe he’s a friend of Doniger and he wanted to do her a favor.”

“Or maybe this case is about more than just a burglary.”

Conrad shook his head. “You’re still not giving up on the front page, are you?”

“I can’t,” Sara said despairingly. “It’s all I’ve got. Besides, this isn’t just my active imagination.”

“You sure about that?”

“I think I’m sure. I mean, we have a burglary where, of all the expensive things that can be taken, only two small items are missing; then there’s the low-life burglar who somehow has access to the city’s best lawyers; then there’s the fact that of the two firms he hires, one is my old one and the other is my husband’s. And if that weren’t enough, we’ve got the world’s best prosecutor begging for the case and lurking in my office. What else do you need? A big neon sign that says ‘Suspicions “R” Us’?”

“I still think you’re overreacting – there’s a logical explanation for every single one of those.”

“Really? Then how about this one: If everything’s so normal, why didn’t Victor ask for the case back?”

“Wait a minute, what are you accusing Victor of?”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I just think you have to admit it’s worth a look around.”

“I’m reserving judgment,” Conrad said. “But since you’re dead set on investigating, what do you plan to do next?”

“I’m not sure. I figured I’d start with Victor, but I didn’t know where to look.”

“If you want, you can check out AJIS – that’s the information system that’ll tell you who Kozlow’s old prosecutors were. You can also check it to see if Victor had another case with Ms. Doniger. But I’m going to warn you again: There are a dozen good reasons for Victor to want that case. So if I were you, I’d skip the delusions of grandeur. All they do is get your hopes up.”

“Don’t worry,” Sara said, her voice racing with nervous excitement. “I’ve got it all in perspective.”

Watching as Sara furiously scribbled notes to herself, Conrad shook his head.

“What?” Sara asked, looking up. “What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” Conrad said. “Is there anything else?”

“One last thing: How do I catch the bastards who broke into my house?”

“Yeah, Guff told me about that. While you were interviewing McCabe, we placed a call to the Twentieth Precinct. They’re on it, but they don’t have a clue. Chalk it up to bad luck and forget it.”

“What’re you talking about? What about your speech? About doing everything you can to stop crime?”

“That was just for show,” Conrad joked. “Although you may get lucky when they get the fingerprint results.”

As Conrad finished, Guff entered the office. “Shame, shame, shame,” Guff said. “Now you’re sounding like a real eighty percenter.”

“Do you eavesdrop on every conversation?” Conrad asked him.

“Just the good ones,” Guff said. Turning to Sara, he added, “Got you some news on the trial front. First, Doniger’s neighbor, Patty Harrison, said she’s happy to testify. You can call her today to set up a time. Second, I looked up the conflict-of-interest issues. According to the rules, husband against wife is a definite conflict. The bad news is you can get around it as long as you get written consent from the client after a full disclosure of the conflict.”

“Damn,” Sara said. “So all Jared has to do is-”

“Hold on a second,” Conrad interrupted. “Your husband’s the defense attorney?”

“I told you it’s not my imagination,” Sara said. “Got any advice for this one?”

“Tell him to get off the case or you’ll divorce his ass,” Conrad said. “I saw this once before – you’re looking at an ugly situation.”

“So it’s allowed?” Sara asked nervously.

“Only under certain circumstances,” Guff said. “The firm has to do some legal maneuverings, and at the very least, Jared has to get written consent from Kozlow. Also, Jared must be able to conclude that despite your involvement, he can adequately represent the interests of the client. That’s how they deal with the conflict-of-interest problems.”

“And you better get all of that in writing,” Conrad said. “The last thing you want is to win and then have your victory taken away when Kozlow appeals and cries that he was given an unfair trial.”

“So as long as Jared gets consent, he can stay on the case?” Sara asked, not looking forward to the answer.

“Sorry, I wish it were better news,” Guff said.

Conrad pointed a finger at Sara. “Be careful with this one. I know you’re dying for the victory, but don’t let the case take over your entire life.”

“Too late,” Sara said.

Ignoring hunger pains and a pile of pink message sheets, Jared worked straight through lunch. He reread the burglary statute, made a list of possible defenses, and started searching for every criminal case in the past ten years that had similar facts.

Even Jared’s office showed off his current obsession. The Woody Allen poster that had hung on the wall behind his desk was now replaced by a large piece of poster board containing a professionally enlarged image of the crime scene – from Doniger’s and Harrison’s houses, to Officer McCabe’s location when he received the call on his radio, to the exact spot where Kozlow was stopped. Every morning, Jared planned to start his day the same way: He’d come in and stare intently at the poster, silently accounting for every second of the incident. Each day, he’d run through all the details, constantly searching for another debatable point he could use to his advantage. At trial, all he needed was the tiniest of mistakes – one slip-up, one misidentification, one moment unaccounted for. That was all it took to win on the facts; that was all he needed to protect his wife.

At the same time, if he couldn’t win on the facts, he could try to win on the client. As he had seen in countless trials, some defendants were so believable – indeed, so likable – that the jury couldn’t help but vote not guilty. But as Jared watched Kozlow bite his nails and spit the remnants into a coffee cup, he realized Kozlow wasn’t one of them.

Kathleen walked into the room. “Ready for a pick-me-up?” she asked. “I’ve got Brownie on the phone.”

Jonathan Brown was one of Manhattan’s least prominent and most unlikely antiques dealers. Specializing in entertainment memorabilia, he was also Jared’s one-stop-shopping source for the hardest-to-find collectibles. They had met at an antiques show when Jared was in law school, but it wasn’t until Jared bought the Chinatown knife that Brownie realized he had a client for life. A salesman first and a collector last, Brownie always said that Jared got the exclusive first look at his newest inventory. And since he liked Brownie, Jared, for the most part, believed him.

“Ready to deal?” Brownie said as Jared picked up the phone.

“Listen, Brownie, now’s really not the-”

“Uh-oh, here he goes – he’s taking out his violin. Ohhhh, Brownie, we’re still paying off loans. Lower the price a little bit and I’ll think about it. Well, that gig’s not working today, baby. Because I just found me the veritable goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“I’m serious-”

“Before you say it, let me finish. Remember that wish list you gave me? The one with the words ‘If You See These, Buy Them for Me’ in big letters? Well, I found the number three item on your list. For a price to be negotiated, you can soon be the owner of your very own – get a load of this, Mr. Movies – your very own scuba mask from The Graduate! I’m talking authenticity here. From the famous pool scene. Good as old and almost sol-”

“Brownie, I don’t have time for this now.” Jared hung up the phone. “You almost done with that paperwork?” he asked Kathleen.

“Here you go,” Kathleen said, handing a small pile of papers to Jared.

After quickly reading each page, Jared walked to Kozlow and placed them on his lap. Handing Kozlow a pen, he said, “Read these, and if you agree with what they say, sign them.”

“What are they?” Kozlow asked.

“They’re consent forms to let me be your attorney. And more important, by acknowledging that the prosecutor is my wife, they also show that you’ve had full disclosure about the situation and that I’ve obtained adequate consent. That way, if we lose, you can’t go tell the appellate court that you need a new trial because you didn’t know we were husband and wife.”

“So if I don’t sign these, I can still get that appeal.”

“Sure you can. But if you don’t sign them, Sara won’t bring the case. She’s too smart to not require this paperwork.”

As Kozlow leaned over to sign his name, Jared said to Kathleen, “Have you been able to get in touch with Doniger’s neighbor or the officer yet?”

“Why so early?” Kathleen asked. “We usually wait until after the grand jury. At this point, we don’t even know if they’ll indict.”

“I don’t care. I want you to call them,” Jared said, refusing to take his eyes off Kozlow. “When it comes to this case, we have to pretend the worst has already happened.”

At four o’clock that afternoon, Sara picked up her phone and dialed Jared’s number. Kathleen put her through.

“What do you want?” Jared answered.

“Nice greeting,” Sara said. “Very warm.”

“Sorry, I don’t have time right now. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” Jared said. “So what do you want?”

Surprised by her husband’s tone, she asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just busy with the case. Now what’s up?”

“I wanted to make sure you know about the consent forms so we can-”

“I already had them drawn up and sent out. They’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

“Good,” Sara said. “Now are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Dinner? Oh, crap, I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll never make it in time; I’m completely swamped.”

“Jared, don’t give me that. You promised Pop you’d be there.”

“I know, but-”

“But what? You have too much work? Kozlow hasn’t even been indicted yet.”

“Don’t start with me,” Jared said. “If you do your job, I need to be prepared for the results.”

“Fine, pull an all-nighter. It won’t do you any good – I’m still going to kill you in court.”

Jared didn’t respond to the jab.

“Hello?” Sara said. “Is anyone there? Someone who can take a joke, perhaps?”

“Listen, I have to go,” Jared said. “I’ll see you at home.”

Sara heard a click and her husband was gone.

“Everything okay?” Guff asked, looking through the case files on Sara’s desk.

“I don’t think so. He’s working awfully hard, considering there’s no indictment.”

“Maybe he’s just trying to get ahead on things.”

“Maybe,” Sara said. “But I can tell when my husband’s nervous, and right now, something’s got him crazy. From here on in, the honeymoon’s over.”