Free Adjourned by Lee Goldberg Page A

chambers, and the aroma of cooking food gave the popular Century City restaurant a warm, homey quality that he found relaxing.
    The Greasy Spoon was nestled between what Fitz would have called two twenty-story stereo speakers; the dressed-for-success executives knew them as the Twin Towers, two silver monoliths rising above the exclusive cluster of office buildings just outside Beverly Hills.
    Fitz sat at his favorite table, tucked into a shadowy corner in the back, and nursed a Bloody Mary while watching the ebb and flow of the Friday noontime crowd. He could hear the rumble of the Santa Anas sweeping through the city, which had been lulled into complacency by a deceptively calm morning.
    The usually trim, slim, and prim Century City executives emerged at noon like preprogrammed robots from their high-rent, high-rise offices and marched into the Greasy Spoon looking mop topped and harried. Fitz noticed that even actor Peter Graves, huddled amongst the crowd awaiting tables, appeared disheveled. Having seen Mission Impossible , Fitz knew how rare that was.
    Fitz ordered a second drink and glanced nervously at his watch. He was watching for the mysterious vigilante to show up and half hoping the man wouldn't. He didn't kid himself. Just agreeing to meet with Mr. Jury and not going to the police made him an accomplice. Then again, if Shaw was any indication, the LAPD wouldn't give a damn anyway.
    He buttered a pencil-thin breadstick and noticed, uneasily, that his hand was shaking just a bit. Fitz couldn't decide whether what he felt was fear or excitement.
    Macklin sat at the bar, as he had for the last two hours, watching Fitz across the room and glancing at faces, hunting for anyone who might be a cop or reporter waiting to snare Mr. Jury in a nice trap.
    When Macklin spotted Peter Graves, he almost bolted out of the restaurant. For a split second fiction became reality for him and he thought the Mission Impossible team had come to get him.
    Shit, Macky boy, take it easy. Macklin swallowed the remainder of his beer, slid off his bar stool, and headed toward Fitz's table, a manila envelope under his arm.
    Macklin neared the round table. "Excuse me, are you Judge Fitz?"
    Fitz's head shot up quickly, the voice startling him. He studied the approaching man and found himself squinting back at the blue eyes that were unabashedly sizing him up.
    "Yes," Fitz replied, recovering his composure, and motioned to the seat in front of him, "You must be"—Fitz cut himself off and shrugged—"the mystery man."
    Macklin's stony expression was broken by an ironic grin. He folded his six-foot frame into the padded wicker chair and offered Fitz his hand as he sat down. "My name's Brett Macklin."
    Fitz straightened up in his seat and shook Macklin's hand. Macklin's grip was strong and firm, giving Fitz the impression that Macklin was a man who was self-assured and aggressive, a fighter. Or, Fitz wondered, am I just reaffirming my preconceived notions?
    "You must be as nervous as I am, Mr. Macklin."
    Macklin nodded, setting the envelope in his lap. "More."
    "Have any trouble finding me?"
    "Not at all. You said look for the darkest corner of the restaurant and you'd be in it." Macklin shrugged. "You were right. Besides, I caught a few minutes of your show on TV before I came."
    A freckled, pale-skinned waitress, her ample girth bound by a nannyish black apron, came to the table.
    "I see your friend has arrived, Judge. Are you ready to order?"
    "I'll have another Bloody Mary, thanks," Fitz replied.
    "Scotch on the rocks," Macklin said. The waitress nodded at them both and bustled toward the bar.
    Fitz leaned back in his seat, watching the waitress go, and chuckled. "Why did I expect you to ask for the drink in a dirty glass?"
    Macklin shifted uneasily in his seat. "I didn't come here to trade one-liners with you. This isn't easy for me."
    Fitz was about to speak when the waitress appeared again, giving them their drinks. The judge took a sip