Free Black River by G. M. Ford Page A

them.”
    “What a pair of shrinking violets,” Klein scoffed. “No wonder you couldn’t put him away.” He looked over at the Balagula contingent. “With an animal like that, you’ve got to fight fire with fire.”
    Renee Rogers opened her mouth to argue, changed her mind, and instead pushed past Klein, walked over to the easel, and covered the picture. Klein followed her, his neck getting progressively redder as he crossed the room.
    His whisper could be heard all over the courtroom. “Are you forgetting who’s in charge here?” he demanded.
    “With you reminding everyone, Warren, one could hardly forget.”
    She stood her ground. Klein stepped in, nose to nose. “I’m going to put that little foot right up Balagula’s ass,” he said. “You just watch me.” He curled his lips into a sneer, turned, and walked back to the table, where he gathered his notes into his briefcase. “Lunch?” he inquired.
    When Rogers and Butler looked at him like he was crazy, he laughed out loud.
    “No wonder he kicked your ass,” he said. “Neither of you has the stomach for the job.” He strode from the room, swinging his briefcase and whistling.
    Renee Rogers wandered over to Corso. “Warren’s looking for lunch company.”
    Corso shook his head sadly. “I’ll have to take a rain check,” he said. “Dead babies tend to put me off my feed.”
    “I could use a drink,” she said.
    “Or ten,” Corso added.
    “Afterward. Vito’s.”
    “I can’t today. I’ve got something I want to run down.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Something to do with Seattle PD calling me to make sure we were together yesterday afternoon?”
    Corso told her about Dougherty.
    “How is she now?”
    “I called before I came down this morning, and they said her condition was unchanged.”
    She put her hand on his arm. “I’ve got a terrific urge to say something stupid. Like how she’s going to be all right or how it will surely work out for the best.”
    Corso nodded his thanks. Her hand was warm and vaguely comforting.
    “Why would anybody want to kill a photographer?”
    “I don’t know,” Corso said, “but I’m damn sure going to find out.”
     
    Nicholas Balagula watched the drama taking place at the prosecution table.
    “It appears our Mr. Corso has become a member of the inner circle.”
    “Miss Rogers and Mr. Butler probably wish to assure themselves of sympathetic treatment in his book,” Mikhail Ivanov said. “These Americans thrive on celebrity.”
    “I think he’s in her pants,” Balagula said.
    Their conversation was interrupted by Bruce Elkins, who leaned down between Ivanov and Balagula. “Do you two think you could look like maybe some of this affects you somehow? It would help me considerably if you didn’t sit there looking at pictures of dead children like you were taking a walk in the park. The jury notices things like that, don’t think they don’t.”
    “Of course you’re right—” Ivanov began.
    Balagula cut him off. “You take care of your end,” he said to his lawyer, “and the rest will take care of itself.”
    Elkins shook his head. “One of these days, Nico. One of these days your arrogance is going to come back to haunt us all.”
    “Not today,” Balagula said with a smile.
    Elkins stood still. “Is there something I should know here?” he demanded.
    “Like what?” Ivanov asked.
    “You tell me,” Elkins said. “I have no intention of being party to anything unethical. Am I making myself understood?”
    But Nicholas had Balagula turned away and was now staring intently at the prosecution table.
    Mikhail Ivanov watched in silence as Elkins gathered his belongings and headed out the front door for his daily dance with the media. “He’s right, you know,” he said, after a moment. “Arrogance is a dangerous thing.”
    Nicholas Balagula ignored him. “Have Gerardo and Ramón follow our Mr. Corso. Let’s find out where our nosy writer friend goes to roost.”
    “Whatever