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powerful father. Either way, rumor had it that when a Princeton professor was about to accuse FJ of plagiarism, the professor disappeared and only his tongue was found—on the pillow of another professor who had considered leveling the same charges.
    “Crystal, FJ.”
    “Great, Myron. Then we’ll talk again.”
    If Myron still had his tongue.
    The three men slid into their car and drove off without another word. Myron slowed his heart rate and checked his watch. Court time.

CHAPTER 7
    The courtroom in Hackensack looked very much like the ones you see on television. Shows like
The Practice
and
Law & Order
and even
Judge Judy
capture the physical appearance pretty well. They can’t of course capture the essence emanating from the little things: the faint, underlying stench of fear-induced sweat, the overuse of disinfectant, the slightly sticky feel to all the benches and tables and handrails—what Myron liked to call the ooze factors.
    Myron had his checkbook ready so bail could be posted immediately. He and Win had gone over it last night and figured the judge would come in around fifty to seventy-five grand. Esperanza had no record and a steady job. Those factors would play in her favor. If the money was higher, no problem. Myron’s pockets might be only semideep, but Win’s net worth was on par with the GNP of a small European country.
    There were droves of reporters parked outside, tons of vans with wrapped cables and satellite dishes, and of course phallic antennas, stretching toward the heavens as though in search of the elusive god of higher ratings. Court TV was there. News 2 New York. ABC News.CNN. Eyewitness News. Every city in every region of the country had an Eyewitness News. Why? What was so appealing about that name? There were also the new sleazoid TV shows, like
Hard Copy, Access Hollywood, Current Affair
, though the distinction between them and the local news was becoming murky to the point of nonexistent. Hey, at least
Hard Copy
and the like were somewhat honest about the fact that they served no redeeming social value. And they didn’t subject you to weathermen.
    A couple of reporters recognized Myron and called out. Myron put on his game face—serious, unyielding, concerned, confident—and no-commented his way through them. When he entered the courtroom, he spotted Big Cyndi first—no surprise since she stuck out like Louis Farrakhan at B’nai B’rith. She was jammed into the aisle of a row empty except for Win. Not unusual. If you wanted to save seats, send Big Cyndi; people did not relish excusing themselves to squeeze past her. Most opted to stand. Or go home even.
    Myron slid into Big Cyndi’s row, actually high-stepping over two knees that looked like batting helmets, and sat between his friends.
    Big Cyndi had not changed from last night or even washed up. The steady rain had rinsed out some of the hair dye; purple and yellow streaks had dried on the front and back of her neck. Her makeup, always applied in amounts thick enough to make a plaster bust, had also suffered under the rain’s onslaught, her face now resembling multicolored menorah candles left too long in the sun.
    In some major cities, murder arraignments were commonplace and handled in factory-line fashion. Not so here in Hackensack. This was big time—a murder case involving a celebrity. There would be no rush.
    The bailiff started calling cases.
    “I had a visitor this morning,” Myron whispered to Win.
    “Oh?”
    “FJ and two goons.”
    “Ah,” Win said. “Was the cover boy for
Modern Mobster
voicing his usual medley of colorful threats?”
    “Yes.”
    Win almost smiled. “We should kill him.”
    “No.”
    “You’re just putting off the inevitable.”
    “He’s Frank Ache’s son, Win. You just don’t kill Frank Ache’s son.”
    “I see. Then you’d rather kill somebody from a better family?”
    Win logic. It made sense in the scariest way possible. “Let’s just see how it plays out,