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through the sliding glass door.
    *   *   *
    After an apology to Diana that had her choked with laughter, an excellent meal, and several utterly forgettable conversations, I was ready to head home. Sam walked me to the door.
    â€œThanks, boss. It was a great evening.”
    â€œUntil a certain senator showed up.”
    â€œA minor blip,” I replied. “I had a good time, really.”
    That was mostly true. I’ve never really felt comfortable making small talk in forced social environments. I also despised the way certain untalented people tried to take advantage of Sam’s hospitality to grin their way to prominence. “Self-pimping,” as one observant journalist had labeled it. I’d been watching a few operators working the group tonight.
    I glanced past Sam toward the living room, where Ernie Spotts was holding forth to a captive audience.
    â€œYou might be in for a late night.”
    Sam looked resigned. “Never fails. If it wasn’t Ernie, it’d be some other gasbag.” He checked to make sure no one was watching, and then gave me a hug. “You’d better hope that fool doesn’t start spreading stories about us, young lady!”
    â€œAre you afraid of Diana?” I was smiling.
    â€œYou can wipe the smile off. That kind of gossip would only fortify the opinions of certain office dinosaurs. We both know who they are.”
    â€œSam. I can handle—”
    â€œI’m not just talking about prosecutors. There are more than a few Neanderthals in the police as well. Ask me. How do you think they feel about reporting to an Indian?”
    Sam was full-blooded Seminole.
    â€œThis isn’t exactly the Land of Enlightenment, Claire. In some ways, not much has changed since I started practicing back in the ’80s. You’re young … you’re female … you’re good looking … and you’re giving directions to men who are years older than you. You need to watch your back.”
    There was a moment of silence between us, and then I grinned.
    â€œI’m good looking?”
    He laughed. “Get out of here!”

 
    5
    As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, it hit me.
    That uncomfortable feeling that I was walking along the edge of a precipice.
    I’d been experiencing the feeling off and on all my life. It was always the same … a tightening in my stomach, a strange vibration in my body, increased pulse, and—I sometimes suspected—increased blood pressure.
    And, always, an uneasy feeling that something was about to happen.
    I had never told anyone about it. Not even my mother. Not even on my worst day. I imagined that if I’d said anything, she’d have told me it was just an attack of nerves. I might have come to the same conclusion long ago if it were not for one nagging problem: For me, the feeling never came before a court appearance, or before a jury address, or—during my college days—before a make-or-break final exam.
    For me, it came only when there was no apparent reason for it. I just kept getting this feeling that something was about to happen … and then it didn’t.
    It was damned exhausting.
    I exited the elevator, crossed the lobby, and left the building. My car was in the visitors’ lot. I keyed the remote on my key chain. The parking lights blinked their usual welcome. I opened the driver’s door, got in, and put the key in the ignition.
    As I reached for my seat belt, my front passenger door jerked open and a beefy thug with a shaved head leapt at me. I had a glimpse of a vicious-looking knife in his right hand just before I made a panicked grab for my door handle. I got the door open a few inches before he lunged across and yanked it shut.
    â€œNot smart, lady!” His voice was a gunmetal rasp, and his breath stank of beer. He eased back, holding the point of the knife against my throat. “Drive!”
    â€œIf