Then last year, Jenkins had been considering a run for district attorney herself. But the powers that had eventually settled on Wes Farrell as their candidate made it clear that they felt that she was a bit too much a one-trick pony-her issues were women's issues, period. She was insufficiently left wing in other respects, believing, for example, that a period of house arrest was probably not the answer to violent crime. But in the immediate aftermath of Farrell's victory, those same power brokers had promoted Jenkins' cause as chief assistant-she had the prosecutorial chops, the administrative experience, the in-depth familiarity with the DA's office personnel, and at least in feminist circles the correct politics. So now they were four days into their respective new jobs, and this was the first time Farrell had seen her since his inauguration ceremony.

Jenkins looked up from the pile of work surrounding her on her desk and straightened in her chair. "Sir?"

Farrell half turned as though looking around behind him. "There's no 'sir' here, Amanda. It's just me, Wes. I was 'Wes' when we were colleagues at the bar. And even running against each other. Remember?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, Wes."

She took a breath. "Okay. Wes."

"Good. At ease." He came into the room. "Got a sec? Mind if I get the door?"

Jenkins was a career prosecutor, always professionally turned out with the possible exception of the trademark short skirts she wore to accentuate her truly show-stopping legs. Now she threw a slightly harried look at her new boss and shrugged, indicating her workload, but then pushed her chair back a bit and linked her hands on her lap. At his service. "What's up?"

Farrell closed the door and pulled a chair around. "I just had a chat with the Curtlees. Both of them."

"That was fast," she said, her eyes suddenly alive. "And let me guess. They wanted you to decline to retry Ro and, failing that, then let him out on bail."