Jeffery Deaver - Mistress of Justice

Weston Electronic et al v Larson Associates – 3 1/2 hours (motion to quash subpoena, J Brietell)

State of New York v Kowalski – 1/2 hour (conference with DAs office, pro bono)

State of New York v Hammond – 1/2 hour (meeting with defendant, pro bono)

In re Summers Publishing – 2 1/2 hours (research, briefing Chapter 7 bankruptcy issue)

She skimmed ahead.

Lasky v Allied Products Mutual Indemnity of

New Jersey v New Amsterdam Bank

State of New York v Williams

She totaled the hours Sixteen were billed to clients. That was sixteen hours of productive work, not commuting time, lunch, trips to the rest rooms and the water fountain.

Sixteen hours in one day.

And every day was pretty much the same.

Arguing motion, arguing motion, on trial, writing brief, on trial, on trial, settlement conference, arguing motion, on trial, pro bono meetings with criminal clients and prosecutors .

On trial on trial on trial

He never stopped.

A thought occurred to her and she smiled to herself. Yes, no?

Go for it, Alice.

She opened the binder containing the most recent of his sheets. She flipped through them until she found the day that she'd followed him to Grand Central Station.

For the three hours he was out of the office he'd marked the time Code 03.

Which meant personal time.

The time you spend at the dentist's office.

The time you spend at PTA conferences.

The time you spend in Westchester, with your girlfriend.

Taylor felt her skin buzzing with embarrassment as she flipped through other lunch hours over the past several months. In September he'd done the same – taken long lunches – only usually it was two or three times a week. Recently, in the month of November, for instance, he'd done so only once a week.

Three hours in the middle of the day for a workaholic like Reece?

Well, Taylor Lockwood understood, she'd had lovers herself.

She put the time sheets back and closed the drawer.

Outside, the air was cold but the city was ablaze with Christmas decorations and she decided to walk home. She slipped her Walkman headset on, then her earmuffs, and began to walk briskly thinking about the evening ahead, dinner with Mitchell Reece – at least until the hiss of the cassette grew silent, Miles Davis started into "Seven Steps to Heaven" and the rest of the world was lost to Taylor Lockwood.

Well, look at this.

Mitchell Reece could've been a professional interior designer.

Taylor would have thought he'd have no time for decor – or interest in the subject. So when he opened his door and ushered her into the huge loft, she exhaled a sharp, surprised laugh.

She was looking at a single room, probably twenty-five hundred square feet. There was a separate elevated sleeping area with a brass railing around it, containing an oak armoire and a matching dresser – and a bed, which caught her attention immediately. It was dark mahogany, with a massive headboard that would have dwarfed any smaller space. The headboard was carved in a Gothic style and the characters cut into the wood were cracked and worn. She couldn't tell exactly what they were – perhaps gargoyles and dragons.

She thought of the mythical creature in Through the Looking-Glass

Beware the Jabberwock, my son

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch

Around the loft were plants, sculpture, antiques, tall bookshelves, tapestries. Pin spots shot focused streams of light onto small statues and paintings, many of which looked ugly enough to be very valuable. The walls were brick and plaster, painted mottled white and gray and pink. The floors were oak, stained white.

If this boy cooks, she joked to herself, I may just reconsider my baby-by-mail plan and marry him.

"You did this just to impress me, I know."

He laughed. "Let me take your coat." Reece wore baggy pants and a blousy white shirt. Sockless slippers. His hair was still damp from a shower.

Taylor had chosen noncommittal vamp. Black stockings but shoes with low, functional heels. A black Carolina Herrera dress, tight but high-necked (Cleavage? A roommate had once bluntly assessed, Forget boobs, Taylor. Avoid low-cut. But the rest of your body – it's to die for. Wear short and tight. Remember that. Short and tight.)

Taylor noted the sweep of Recce's eyes all along her body. He was subtle, but not subtle enough, she caught him in reflection in one of the mirrors near the Jabberwock bed.

Okay, Ms. Westchester, she thought to Reece's mysterious girlfriend, can you shoehorn into a dress like this?

She followed him across an oriental rug. The dinner table had feet, and on the side, carved faces of the sun. They were solemn.

"Your table looks unhappy."

"He gets bored. I don't have much company. He'll be happy tonight."

As Reece took the wine she'd brought she looked at him carefully and decided he wasn't very happy either. His eyes were still bloodshot and he seemed to be forcing himself to relax, to push the intruding distractions of the law firm away.

He walked into the kitchen area and put the chardonnay into a refrigerator. She looked inside, it contained nothing but wine. "You should try groceries sometime," she said. "Lettuce, oranges. You can even get chicken, I'm told, ready to cook."

"Wine cellar, ' Reece said, laughing. He pulled out a bottle of white, a Puligny-Montrachet. Her fathers favorite Burgundy, Taylor recalled. Reece added, "The fridge's over there." He pointed to a tall Sub-Zero then took two crystal goblets in one hand and carried the wine and a ceramic cooler out into the living area.

Man, she thought, he's really slick at this.

He poured and they touched glasses. "To winning."

Taylor held his eye for a moment and repeated the toast. The wine was rich and sour-sweet, more like a food than a drink. The goblet was heavy in her hand.

They sat and he told her how he'd found the loft. It was raw space when he'd moved in and he'd had it finished himself. The project had taken nearly a year because he'd had three full-fledged trials that year and had been unable to meet with the contractors. "I slept in sawdust a lot," he explained. "But I won the cases."

"Have you ever lost a trial?" she asked.

"Of course. Everybody loses trials. I seem to win a few more than most people. But that's not magic. Or luck. Preparation is the key. And will to win."

"Preparation and Will. That could be your motto."

"Maybe I should get a crest. I wonder what it'd be in Latin."

Taylor rose and walked toward a long wooden shelf. "My mother," she said, "would call this a knickknack shelf. I used to think 'knickknack' was French for 'small, ugly ceramic poodle." He laughed.

She found herself looking at an army of metal soldiers.

"I collect them," Reece said. "Winston Churchill probably had the biggest collection in the world and Malcolm Forbes's wasn't too shabby either. I've only been at it for twenty years or so."

"What are they, tin?"

"Lead."

Taylor said, "One year my father got the idea that I should get soldiers, not dolls, for Christmas. I must've been eight or nine. He gave me bags and bags of these green plastic guys. He gave me a B-52 too so I nuked most of them and went back to Barbie and Pooh. You have other things, too? Like cannons and catapults?"

"Everything. Soldiers, horses, cannons, and caissons.

She sipped the wine and was thinking. Sometimes in life this craziness falls right on top of you and you find yourself almost floating up and away from your body like a guru or psychic, looking down at yourself, and all you can say is, Shit a brick, this is so weird. I mean, here I am, Alice in Wonderland, in a fab loft, next to a handsome man I'm playing detective with, drinking hundred-dollar wine and talking toy soldiers.