It was Friday afternoon. I might not survive a weekend in the city jail.

They left to make their calls, and I sat at my desk, petrified, unable to move or think or do

anything but listen for the squeaking of the front door. I didn't have to wait long. At

precisely 4 P.M., Lieutenant Gasko entered with a couple of his men behind him.

During my first encounter with Gasko, when he was searching Claire's apartment, when I

was ranting and taking names and threatening all sorts of vile litigation against him and

his buddies, when every word uttered by him was met with a caustic retort from me, when I was a hard-charging lawyer and he was a lowly cop, it never occurred to me that

he one day might have the pleasure of arresting me. But there he was, swaggering like an

aging jock, somehow sneering and smiling at the same time, holding yet more papers,

folded and just waiting to be slapped against my chest.

"I need to see Mr. Brock," he said to Sofia, and about that time I walked into the front

room, smiling.

"Hello, Gasko," I said. "Still looking for that file?"

"Nope. Not today."

Mordecai appeared from his office. Sofia was standing at her desk. Everybody looked at

everybody. "You got a warrant?" Mordecai asked.

"Yep. For Mr. Brock here," Gasko said.

I shrugged and said, "Let's go." I moved toward Gasko. One of the goons unsnapped a

pair of handcuffs from his waist. I was determined to at least look cool.

"I'm his lawyer," Mordecai said. "Let me see that." He took the arrest warrant from

Gasko and examined it as I was getting cuffed, hands behind my back, wrists pinched by

cold steel. The cuffs were too tight, or at least tighter than they had to be, but I could bear

it and I was determined to be nonchalant.

"I'll be happy to take my client to the police station," Mordecai said.

"Gee thanks," Gasko said. "But I'll save you the trouble."

"Where will he go?"

"Central."

"I'll follow you there," Mordecai said to me. Sofia was on the phone, and that was even

more comforting than knowing that Mordecai would be somewhere behind me.

Three of our clients saw it all; three harmless street gentlemen in for a quick word with

Sofia. They were sitting where the clients always waited, and when I walked by them

they watched in disbelief.

One of the goons squeezed my elbow and yanked me through the front door, and I

stepped onto the sidewalk anxious to duck into their car: a dirty unmarked white one

parked at the corner. The homeless saw it all--the car moving into position, the cops

rushing in, the cops coming out with me handcuffed.

"A lawyer got arrested," they would soon whisper to each other, and the news would race

along the streets.

Gasko sat in the rear with me. I stayed low in the seat, eyes watching nothing, the shock

settling in.

"What a waste of time," Gasko said as he relaxed by placing a cowboy boot on a knee.

"We got a hundred and forty unsolved murders in this city, dope on every corner, drug

dealers selling in middle schools, and we gotta waste time on you."

"Are you trying to interrogate me, Gasko?" I asked.

"No."

"Good." He hadn't bothered with the Miranda warning, and he didn't have to until he

started asking questions.

Goon One was flying south on Fourteenth, no lights or sirens, and certainly no respect for

traffic signals and pedestrians.

"Then let me go," I said.

"If it's up to me, I would. But you really pissed some folks off. The prosecutor tells me

he's under pressure to get you."

"Pressure from who?" I asked. But I knew the answer. Drake & Sweeney wouldn't waste

time with the cops; they would rather talk legalspeak with the chief prosecutor.

"The victims," Gasko said with heavy sarcasm. I agreed with his assessment; it was

difficult to picture a bunch of wealthy lawyers as victims of a crime.

Lots of famous people had been arrested. I tried to recall them. Martin Luther King went

to jail several times. There were Boesky and Milken and other noted thieves whose

names escaped me. And what about all those famous actors and athletes caught driving

drunk and picking up prostitutes and possessing coke? They had been thrown into the

backseats of police cars and led away like common criminals. There was a judge from

Memphis serving life; an acquaintance from college in a halfway house; a former client

in the federal pen for tax evasion. All had been arrested, led downtown, booked,

fingerprinted, and had their pictures taken with the little number under their chins. And

all had survived.

I suspected that even Mordecai Green had felt the cold clasp of handcuffs.

There was an element of relief because it was finally happening. I could stop running,

and hiding, and looking to see if anyone was behind me. The waiting was over. And it

was not a midnight raid, one that would certainly keep me in jail until morning. Instead, the hour was manageable. With luck, I could get processed and bailed out before the

weekend rush hit.

But there was also an element of horror, a fear I had never felt in my life. Many things

could go wrong at the city jail. Paperwork might get lost. Delays of a dozen varieties

could be created. Bail could be postponed until Saturday, or Sunday, or even Monday. I

could be placed in a crowded cell with unfriendly to nasty people.

Word would leak that I had been arrested. My friends would shake their heads and

wonder what else I could do to screw up my life. My parents would be devastated. I

wasn't sure about Claire, especially now that the gigolo was keeping her company.