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between Fat Jack and Matt Riordan—and there was little doubt in my mind that the jury would have no trouble choosing which man to trust.
    Our whole defense would depend upon the fat man sitting next to Matt.
    I could handle this, I decided; the Mean Streak wasn’t as scary as it looked.

C HAPTER T HREE
    â€œYou said there wouldn’t be a little black suit,” I protested through clenched teeth. “You said I could be myself.”
    â€œI forgot that your idea of dressing for success is a hand-sewn Afghan smock from the Daily Planet catalogue,” Riordan replied with a wry smile. He sat on a red plush stool; I stood before a beveled three-way mirror in my stocking feet. An Ann Taylor suit in a deep charcoal with faint chalk stripes hung from my frame like a burlap sack.
    â€œIt’s too boxy,” I said. My voice held exactly the same shade of sullen resentment I’d used at age ten when shopping at Horne’s with my mother.
    â€œTrue,” Riordan agreed in a cheerful tone that steadfastly refused to acknowledge my mood. “A woman in a suit should always look as if she’s not wearing anything underneath. There should be a provocative little hint of cross-dressing, of feminine charms hidden under a deceptively masculine wrapping.”
    â€œWhen the hell did you start writing for Women’s Wear Daily ?” I shot back. I felt like a fool. Worse, I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman , like Eliza Doolittle, like the original Galatea, like every woman who has ever let a man dictate to her how she should present herself. Riordan had hired a lawyer, not a mannequin, and it was about time I—
    â€œEverything counts,” my client said in a low voice. The testiness in his tone was overlaid by an intense conviction. As much as Matt Riordan was capable of speaking directly from the heart, he was speaking that way now. “I know you think it’s enough to know the law, to be quick on your feet, to care about your cases. But when I say everything counts, I mean everything, including physical appearance. And yours,” he went on, “could stand a little improvement. More Manhattan, less Brooklyn. More Wall Street, less Legal Aid.”
    â€œMore Jane Pauley, less me,” I muttered. But the sullen edge left my voice; I was just bantering now.
    Everything counts . That was Riordan in a nutshell. His own appearance was a matter of constant, meticulous concern. I’d given him a tie one Christmas; he’d never worn it, and when I asked why, he told me. At length. He was only doing to me what he’d always done to himself.
    â€œJust try on the next suit,” Riordan begged. “I think the amethyst raw silk has possibilities.”
    It did. Believe it or not, I looked great in the thing. It had a peplum and a rounded forties collar with rhinestone clips. Very period, nipped at the waist with a straight skirt that ended just above the knees. Short enough to show leg; long enough for a woman who hadn’t worn a miniskirt since the last time they were in style.
    Pearl-gray pumps, gray hose with just a touch of lavender, silver earrings, and a haircut that cost more than my last year’s entire beauty shop budget—and I was finally ready for prime time.
    We grabbed a cappuccino at a little place on Madison Avenue. I had six shopping bags filled with silk items, two shoe bags holding Louis Jourdan pumps, and a wardrobe of scarves in colors like eggplant and teal. I was also under orders to wear only my most conservative, absolutely real jewelry. No craft fair finds in hammered silver, no handmade Navajo turquoise, no images of animals.
    I had appointments for a facial, a leg waxing, and a manicure. Was I preparing to try a case or enter the Miss America contest? I absentmindedly raised a hand to my hair, intending to run my fingers through it, but instead of the real thing, I now had a headful of doll hair, sprayed into plastic straw. I