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by an unemployed pipefitter while her mother lounged on the sofa in the same room watching the Home Shopping Network. The search of the apartment had turned up a stash of marijuana, an assortment of barbiturates, and two grams of cocaine. The problem was, the warrant had neglected to mention drugs, and they hadn’t been in plain sight when the police entered the apartment.
    Larrigan would, of course, rule the drugs admissible. His problem was to justify that ruling with case law. Then, even if he were overturned on appeal, his reputation would not be tarnished. These days, a jurist’s reputation hinged less on his even-handed application of the law than on what he seemed to believe.
    Larrigan believed in the fair application of the law. He believed justice should be blind.
    But he also believed that the war on drugs should be fought aggressively and that criminals should be punished. He had the reputation of being a tough judge. He’d nurtured that reputation. He’d earned it. That reputation had put him on the president’s short list for a seat on the Supreme Court.
    It had been a week since Pat Brody had come to Boston. Larrigan wondered what would happen next.
    Nothing, probably. As Brody had told him, there were hundreds of names, hundreds of top-notch judges and lawyers. Even if he was on what Brody called the president’s “personal list,” even if he’d played golf with the president a couple times, Larrigan knew he was still a long shot.
    Still, he couldn’t help wanting it, tasting it . . .
    He swiveled around in his chair to stare out his office window. Black roiling thunderheads were building out over the harbor. They’d burst open any minute, he figured. Just in time to rain out his late-afternoon golf match in Belmont with Jonah Wright, which was disappointing. Larrigan enjoyed golf, and he liked playing with Jonah. The man had a flamboyant, erratic game. He hit the ball a mile, usually into the rough, which set up both his occasionally spectacular recoveries over, around, and under trees and his more frequent double bogies. Wright tended to sink long serpentine putts and miss two-footers.
    He was a challenging opponent but, of course, no match for Larrigan’s steady, methodical game, and even giving three shots a side, Larrigan rarely lost to him. For that matter, Larrigan rarely lost to anybody. When he played the president, he beat him, too. Larrigan believed that the president admired the fact that the judge didn’t hold back, that he was a competitor, that he refused to lose.
    But that’s not why Larrigan didn’t want to miss his weekly match with Jonah Wright. Jonah was a well-positioned State Street investment banker, a Boston power broker, an ally. Larrigan hadn’t figured out how yet. But sooner or later Jonah Wright would be able to do him a favor.
    Of course, when the Supreme Court appointment went through, Larrigan wouldn’t need any Jonah Wrights ever again.
    Meanwhile, he did not intend to burn his bridges.
    He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. They’d planned to tee off at five. Nine quick holes, just the two of them sharing a cart, and back in the clubhouse before seven. Gin-and-tonics for Jonah, iced tea for Larrigan, then a Bibb lettuce salad, club steak, and baked potato. Coffee on the veranda, a chance to catch up, see who was who and what was what these days in Massachusetts politics, and home by eight-thirty or nine, in time to tuck the kids in before holing up in his office to write up his ruling on the admissibility of those drugs.
    No way it wasn’t going to rain. No golf today.
    Amy would get flustered if he showed up before nine. Amy didn’t care what he did or who he did it with as long as he gave her his schedule and stuck to it. Amy didn’t do well with surprises. Maybe he’d drive out to the club anyway, sit in for a rubber or two of bridge, have supper with Jonah.
    The intercom buzzed. He