reserves, he had resolved to be as laconic as possible, even to the point of Zen.
"Your Honor," Boyce said, smiling, as if he were presenting the most reasonable proposition since Newton's last law, "one of the foundations of our defense will be that this prosecution, ab initio" —he turned to the deputy AG—"sorry, 'from the beginning'—"
"I know what it means."
"It's Latin."
"I know that"
"I wasn't sure they still taught Latin when you—"
"Your honor."
"Counsel."
"A significant part of our defense, Your Honor, will be that Madame Deputy Attorney General here—"
"The name is Clintick. I don't work in a whorehouse."
Boyce snorted. "I'd say that's a matter of opinion."
"Your Honor."
"Counsel."
"We will establish that Mad—that the deputy attorney general is merely the smallest cog in a larger government conspiracy machine to bring murder charges against the former First Lady to further their own political agendas. Their evidence is disgraceful. Worse than disgraceful. I will annihilate it. Having done that, I will show by direct and cross-examination that Ms. Clintick conspired, along with other officers of government, to crucify Elizabeth MacMann on the altar of their own ambition. I understand, Your Honor, that this is a foul charge. I use it reluctantly, having no other recourse." When Boyce got going, his language became florid in a nineteenth-century sort of way.
Judge Umin tried not to smile. He concentrated on thinking about the crippling price he had just paid for his latest acquisition, a still life of a pear and eel by Govingus Koekkoek (1606-1647).
"I won't sit here and listen to this," said the deputy AG. "I will certainly not sit in court and listen to it."
Judge Dutch creaked in his chair. "Why don't I decide what we'll do in court?"
"Of course, Your Honor. I meant..."
Bingo. Boyce always tried to rattle them before going into court, to see where their stress points were. This one's stood out like rivets.
"I'm hard-pressed to think of a precedent," Judge Dutch said.
"I can't think of a precedent, either," Boyce interjected. "The executive branch conspiring with directors of the nation's top security and law enforcement agencies to frame the widowed wife of a president in order to conceal their own rank animosities and evil designs—"
"Steady, Counselor."
"I apologize, Judge. I forgot myself But I feel myself stirred."
"Give me something concrete, not a Patrick Henry speech."
Boyce handed him a loose-leaf binder full of press clippings highlighted in bright colors, neatly tabbed.
"As you know, Mrs. MacMann was no passive First Lady. She did not confine herself to serving tea to other wives and organizing Easter egg rolls on the White House lawn for the children of... cabinet officers."
The attorney general, father of five, had been conspicuous with his brood at the recent White House Easter egg roll.
Boyce continued. "Beth MacMann was the most substantive First Lady in our history. This did not sit well with some. On occasion, as the documents in that binder will show, Mrs. MacMann was vocally, if always cautiously, critical of the FBI and the Secret Service. The former for what she viewed as incompetence for hiring a man with the middle name of Vladimir to head up its counterintelligence operations. The latter for its hiring practices, which she viewed as discriminatory. We will contend that these two agencies, which played so critical a role in her being dragged by the hair to the dock, were predisposed to exact revenge on her by concocting the evidence against her."
"Evidence, Counsel, evidence. These are press clippings."
"With all respect, you're putting my client in a classic Catch-22 position. She cannot produce evidence without putting her accusers on the stand, yet you will not permit her to put them on the stand without first presenting evidence."
"I'll consider it. But for your client's sake, I wouldn't put all your eggs in that basket. As for calling the President to