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court, Shelley had taken it upon herself to call ‘the most senior ADA in the county’ or in other words, Amanda, who was currently ‘the man’, or more pointedly, ‘the woman’, now running the Goddamned show.
    â€˜
Jesus
,’ she said as she bounded out of bed, finding her lace knickers and bra at the far end of Tony’s tastefully decorated Copley Square penthouse bedroom.
    â€˜What is it?’ he asked, now rising on his elbows, still high from the rush, Amanda knew – his cheeks flushed, his penis size still challenging that of an aroused Clydesdale horse.
    â€˜Work,’ she said, not wanting to give too much away. Tony was a corporate lawyer with absolutely no interest in coveting her job. But Amanda was born suspicious – the only child of a US Supreme Court judge who taught her never to share a single crumb with anyone with the letters JD after their name.
    â€˜Let someone else get it, babe,’ he said, obviously hungry for more.
    â€˜Katz is away,’ she said, putting on her high-heeled pumps, knowing her profile against the moonlit window was probably driving Bishop insane. ‘I’m it,’ she added, slipping on her white silk blouse and navy pencil skirt.
    â€˜Yes, you are,’ smiled Tony. ‘And this must be something big if you are so hot to trot.’
    â€˜Tony, every case is of equal importance to the District Attorney’s Office, and as a representative of the people I . . .’
    â€˜. . . have a sixth sense on how to cherry-pick the good ones,’ finished Tony, ‘which this one obviously is.’
    Amanda could not help but smile. She had to admit, she liked Bishop, probably because they had so much in common – a shared narcissistic perspective of their ‘noble’ profession, a knack of how to manipulate the system for their own personal gain.
    She threw on her jacket – the top half of a $700 Armani cool wool suit.
    â€˜Turn on the TV and you might catch it,’ she said, checking herself in the bureau mirror as she twisted her hair into a conservative French roll. She applied a natural shade of lipstick before assessing herself once again, grabbing her Balenciaga handbag and heading for the door.
    â€˜You’re a piece of work, you know that, Carmichael?’ Bishop smiled.
    â€˜Just doing my job, Counsellor.’ She smiled. ‘Just doing my job.’
    It was an episode about mixed signals, David recalled. A whole hour devoted to Doctor Jeff trying to teach some incredibly wholesome looking couples how to ‘read’ their partner more effectively. The doctor told them how miscommunication was a ‘universal phenomenon’, and more importantly, just how these fine people could address it. And the couples soaked up his wisdom with enthusiasm, with the utmost of gratitude and respect.
    Lisa had forced him to watch it. His younger Massachusetts General nursing sister had been going through a difficult time with one of her many transient boyfriends and asked if he would make her a cocoa and sit down and veg for a while. Which he did, and while it definitely wasn’t his personal cup of tea, he could remember thinking that this almost too good looking Doctor Jeff certainly had the knack.
    â€˜Doctor,’ said David at last, after two minutes of absolute silence. Logan had said he needed to think. He was confused, distraught, angry even when David and Sara entered the living room. He recognised them from their previous high-profile trials and immediately protested that they had been asked to represent him.
    David had been honest from the outset – he had told him that he and his wife were once friends, and that while they had not been in contact for many years, he had been pleased to see her at the Law Society ball some three months ago.
    â€˜I asked for a public defender,’ the doctor had responded after a pause, surprising David somewhat by making no