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declined to comment, and McCormick's spokesman quoted him as “refusing to stoop to respond to the paranoid fantasies of a crackhead.”
    The incident hadn't hurt McCormick's standing within the GOP, since shortly thereafter the Republican governor appointed him to a judicial opening on the Circuit Court of St. Louis County—a position he would hold for nearly two decades, until a Republican president elevated him to federal district court.
    McCormick turned back to Hirsch with a resigned smile. “We both know I'm the only eyewitness. That makes me an important witness at trial. That's why I called you here today. To tell you that I'll be a good witness. I'm going to tell the truth, of course. I'm going to tell it like it is, but,” he paused, “it's been more than three years now. Exactly what happened that night may not be totally clear until your accident reconstruction experts have a chance to examine the evidence and reach their own conclusions.” He contemplated Hirsch for a moment. “It might help if I know what their conclusions are before I testify.”
    Hirsch nodded.
    “I have a crazy schedule this month.” He reached for his personal calendar and started paging. “Let's see.”
    On the credenza behind his desk sat a battered black football helmet with a gold
M
emblazoned on each side. Framed above the credenza was a large color photograph from his football days at Mizzou. It was a telephoto shot taken an instant before the snap. In it, he towered above the crouching lineman, his breath vaporing in the chilly air, mud smeared on his arms and pants and jersey. He'd earned a reputation on the gridiron as a headhunter.
    Hirsch almost smiled at the memories triggered by the helmet and the photo. He, too, had played linebacker for a college team, the Tigers, and he, too, had worn the same number on his jersey. But as McCormick often taunted back in their assistant U.S. attorney years, especially in crowded singles bars after hours, the level of competition in the Ivy League was a far cry from Saturday warfare on the gridirons of the Big Eight.
    “Like tiger lilies to tigers,” he used to shout at Hirsch over the din.
    Not anymore, pal,
Hirsch thought as he eyed McCormick's puffy face. But he caught himself, irritated by his own cockiness. There were, he reminded himself, far more reputable places to get in shape than the weight room of a federal penitentiary, and far more respectable workout programs then the so-called Eminem Regimen, which got its name not from the rap star or the little candies but from the disgraced junk bonds prince Michael Milkin, whose personal trainer supposedly wrote the program for his client's stay at the federal prison camp in Pleasanton. Photocopies of the program had spread throughout the federal correctional system and were posted on the gym walls of most minimum-security facilities, including Allenwood.
    “Looks like I should have a break in my trial docket the middle of next month,” McCormick said, studying his calendar. “Assuming I don't get a preemptive criminal setting, I'll have Betty set up a time for you to come in here for a witness interview. Hopefully, you'll have some feedback from your experts by then. Do you have them all retained?”
    “Almost.”
    Actually, not even close. One of Rosenbloom's paralegals had put together a list for him of possible experts, but he'd contacted none of them. Indeed, he'd done little work on the lawsuit. The file had sat unopened on his credenza since the afternoon he came back from the clerk of the court with the file-stamped petition.
    McCormick chuckled. “We do have one crazy quirk here, don't we?”
    “What's that?”
    “One of your defendants is Peterson Tire. Until I read your petition, I'd forgotten they made the tires on that Explorer.”
    “I'm not optimistic about that claim.”
    “Really? Why not?”
    “I haven't retained a tire expert yet, but I didn't see any indication of tire failure.”
    “Don't give up on