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up at the woman’s boss, still mourning at the podium while pretending to search for a document. He’d shy away from more testimony from this turncoat witness, Ryan thought: follow the axiom that you never ask a witness a question unless you know how they’ll answer. The young lawyer and his bosses would get away with it.
    Ryan tapped the legal assistant’s arm, crooking a finger to motion her to follow. She looked puzzled, but slid off the bench to comply.
    In the hallway, Ryan waited until he heard the courtroom door thud shut behind them. “Get your boss to ask for a recess,” he said hurriedly. “Tell him the young Perry Mason at the table nearest the jury box is signaling the witness how to answer.”
    The woman’s eyes blanked with shock as Ryan went on rapidly.
    “This judge may help you, but there’s no way you can talk to him without signaling the other side what you know—and then it’s too late. Tell your boss to resist letting this witness go, even if he’s afraid of what she’ll say. Because the older juror with the sport coat is catching on. He’s dressed up, paying attention, and at his age likely will get the foreman spot. Tell your boss to keep pushing this witness aggressively—while the youngster keeps signaling her. The sympathetic juror will have a chance to be sure of what he suspects and when it comes time to deliberate, he’ll lead the rest of the jury right into your arms.”
    Ryan turned away and headed down the hall, refusing to care if the woman followed his advice.

    Twenty minutes later, standing in the courthouse foyer, Ryan heard heavy footfalls approaching across the marble floor behind him. He turned.
    “Mr. Hart, don’t see you enough around here these days.”
    “Your Honor,” Ryan answered, nodding, relieved that it was Judge Freyling, with graying hair and a thickening frame. If he had to run into someone today, he’d prefer it be his favorite magistrate in the King County Courthouse.
    “Say,” the judge went on, “there’s a rumor you were sighted in one of the upstairs halls of justice a short while ago watching some real lawyers at work in Tipton’s courtroom. This true?”
    Ryan had tried half a dozen cases in front of Tipton, so the fact that he’d been recognized wasn’t surprising. “Talking to your neighbor in courtroom 431?” he asked.
    Judge Freyling shook his head. “No. My bailiff ran into Tipton’s clerk in the hall a few minutes ago. I’m informed you left the courtroom with a pretty young lady who came rushing back a few minutes later to whisper in the plaintiff attorney’s ear—who then asked the judge for an early lunch recess. Don’t know what you told her, but it doesn’t matter: Tipton’s clerk’s taking heavy odds that the jury’s going to find against the plaintiff and his attorney—and Tipton’s clerk’s never wrong.”
    Ryan thought for a moment about telling Freyling what he’d just witnessed. But there was no point; there was nothing he could do with a third-hand charge like that.
    “Tell your bailiff,” Ryan responded, “to take those odds with a hundred bucks on the plaintiff.”
    Judge Freyling’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. “You know, Counselor, that would be highly unethical and I’d have to fire her if she did.” He paused, then leaned close. “But if you’re sure, I’ll call Tipton and take the bet myself this afternoon.”
    Ryan smiled as his tension uncoiled a notch. “Have I mentioned how much I appreciated your taking Emily on for that clerkship?” he said.
    “Every time we pass in the hall,” the judge said, waving Ryan off. “Which is a lot, given that that was, what—almost three years ago. Is it that long since your daughter finished law school? Anyway, as I’ve told you, it was no favor—she had the grades and was the best candidate to apply. And I hear she’s done a great job in the Public Defender’s office these last two years since she left me. She’s learning her way around