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stared at her. The bewildered expression on his face almost made Jennifer Kellman laugh.
    “Mr. Klein, I want you to relax,” the judge said, “and I want you to answer one or two questions.”
    Klein’s eyes bounced around the other faces at the table. “My lawyer,” he said, “always told me to say nothing to nobody.”
    “That’s good advice, Mr. Klein, but you’re in a unique situation, and nobody but me is going to ask you any questions, and none of these questions can hurt you.” She paused. “The court is only trying to help.”
    Klein shrugged. “I don’t know anything. Ask me what you want.”
    “Have you had an opportunity to find another lawyer yet?”
    “Hey. What kind of opportunity? The kid got killed over the weekend. Ever try to find a lawyer on a weekend?”
    Even Neil Steinman laughed. Sorrentino noticed that there was genuine affection in Klein’s use of the word “kid” to describe Perini. Klein was ordinarily hard and taciturn. Vincent Sorrentino imagined he was a difficult client. But even Sy Klein had absorbed Tom Perini’s pleasing, warm charisma. Klein and Perini P A U L B A T I S T A
    had developed that intense, ear-to-ear whispering relationship that evolved sometimes between criminal lawyers and their clients during the course of a trial.
    Judge Feigley was almost gentle with Klein. “How long do you think it would take you to find a lawyer?”
    Klein had always been a quick opportunist. He now believed that this conversation could help him. “I don’t know. It took a long time to find Perini. There aren’t that many lawyers around who do this kind of work. It could take weeks, months.”
    Steinman, suddenly concerned that he was losing his advan-32
    tage, jumped in, “Judge, with all respect, I think Mr. Klein is exaggerating—”
    “Stop there, Mr. Steinman. I’m talking to Mr. Klein. One thing I know for sure. You never had to find a lawyer for yourself in the middle of a criminal trial, and I know I never have.”
    Klein was speaking. “And there’s another thing. I’m tapped out, money-wise. I had to pay Mr. Perini more than two hundred and fifty grand, up front, and there ain’t no other attorney around who’s gonna come in for less.”
    “Don’t mislead the court, Mr. Klein. You’re not a poor man.”
    “Judge, I’m not misleading nobody. That’s what it costs when these guys go after you.” He gestured at Steinman and the other government lawyers near him. It was a mean, almost threatening pointing of his index finger. “They put you in the poorhouse.”
    “If you’re indigent, Mr. Klein, the court will appoint a lawyer for you.”
    “I’m not that, Judge. It just won’t be easy. It’ll be real expensive. I can’t just snap my fingers. I can’t just go to his wife and kid and get my money back.”
    Judge Feigley motioned to her law clerk. Behind her large left hand they whispered to one another. In the pause, Vincent Sorrentino now remembered that his client, Congressman Fonseca, once told him that Sy Klein was “no fool.” Sorrentino could now appreciate the comment, which he had dismissed at the time.
    At the head of the table most of the whispering was done by D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
    the judge’s law clerk, a twenty-six-year-old lawyer, also black, who had graduated from Yale two years earlier and whom the judge leaned on inordinately for advice. She now waved him away and looked around the table.
    “One thing I might consider,” she said, “is severing Mr. Klein and letting his case get tried later. Anyone want to comment on that?”
    Sorrentino leaned forward. “I object to it, Judge.”
    “What a surprise, Mr. Sorrentino. You object to everything I do or suggest. Do you have a reason for this one?”

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    “Absolutely, Judge. It would be highly prejudicial to my client if Mr. Klein were let out at this stage.”
    “You care to tell me why?”
    “Congressman Fonseca is not guilty of anything, Judge. But the government has