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What’s it about?”
    As I started to answer, Pisani interrupted. “I’d like another cup of coffee, wouldn’t you, Carlton? Can you fetch us some, Ms. Fox?” He nodded toward a silver urn in the office’s northwest corner, yet another antique, and held out his white mug. I didn’t move. What a pig, I thought. I was a prosecutor, not his personal waitress. I made eye contact with Whitaker and much to my disgust, he slowly hoisted up his empty mug, too. I noticed that Whitaker’s had the words THE BOSS emblazoned on it in gold leafing. I thought both of those mugs should have had the word PRICK on them.
    “No problem,” I said flatly.
    “I take two lumps,” Whitaker said.
    “I take mine any way I can get it,” Pisani added.
    How about with some added spit? I thought.
    I had brought the manila envelope with me that contained photographs of Mary Margaret’s beaten face. As I reached toward Whitaker’s outstretched hand to retrieve his coffee mug, I handed him the envelope. Then I turned and took Pisani’s mug with the most disingenuous smile that I’d ever flashed anyone.
    When I returned from pouring the two men’s coffees, Whitaker was examining the photos.
    “Mr. Whitaker, I wanted you to see these photographs so you would know what sort of defendant we’re dealing with here.”
    “Defendant?” Whitaker asked. “Has someone already been charged with this beating?”
    “Well, not yet,” I said, correcting myself. “The victim is Mary Margaret Finn, a local White Plains girl, and the man who did this to her is her boyfriend, Rudy Hitchins.”
    Pisani said, “Would this be the same Rudy Hitchins who got a free pass a few weeks ago on an armed robbery charge? A ‘smash and grab’ at a jewelers on Mamaroneck Avenue?”
    “Yes, sir,” I replied, genuinely impressed that Pisani remembered.
    Because Whitaker wasn’t familiar with the case, Pisani briefed him. “Mr. Hitchins and his criminal associates were arrested but the charge against him was dismissed. They burst in the store, smashed the glass display cases with hammers, grabbed as much as they could carry, and then ran outside. Not real inventive, but efficient. The case wasn’t that interesting, but I remember it because I’ve been watching this Hitchins character.”
    “Why?” Whitaker asked.
    “He’s got potential.” Pisani laughed. “He’s a wannabe gangster. He does work occasionally for Nicholas Persico’s crew.”
    “He works for the Butcher? Persico?” Whitaker asked, clearly impressed.
    “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not following any of this.”
    Pisani sounded irritated but looked pleased to show off his knowledge. “Persico is a member of the Genovese crime family. We’ve been after him for years.”
    “Why did you call him the Butcher?”
    “’Cause he runs a family-owned butcher shop in Yonkers and he likes to use a butcher knife when he tortures his victims.”
    Growing suddenly impatient, Whitaker asked me, “What’s so important about this Hitchins character that you needed to see me? He sounds like small potatoes and this sounds like a family court matter, not a big case.”
    I quickly explained that Mary Margaret and Rudy Hitchins were not married. I added that she was pregnant with his baby and that he’d put her in the ICU. Following Detective O’Brien’s advice, I said nothing about how Hitchins had raped Mary Margaret.
    Whitaker said, “Get to the point, young lady.”
    “Since they aren’t married, I’d like to prosecute him in criminal court on first-degree assault charges. Family court lacks jurisdiction. I want him to go to jail for what he did—and Detective Tom O’Brien agrees with me, sir.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Pisani smirk. Mentioning O’Brien’s name had been a mistake. It made it appear as if I wasn’t strong enough on my own to handle this—that I’d been be prompted by O’Brien.
    Whitaker asked, “Miss Fox, aren’t you assigned to the