A stir in the courtroom, as of a sudden breeze across a cornfield, caused Judge Blick to look up from his papers at the two men approaching the bench. It was clear which was the defendant; that thin glum-looking fellow in the gray suit with the lumpy shoulders. But who was that striding next to him, causing shock waves of astounded recognition among the pews of drunks and whores and lawyers? Judge Blick frowned once more at the papers before him. "Attorney: Willard Beecom." He looked up again, and that was no Willard Beecom advancing on the bench, that was–

J. Radcliffe Stonewiler! By God, it really was! One of the most famous lawyers in the country, a man whose nose for the glamorous, the wealthy and the powerful was only matched by his instinct for publicity. If an enraged actress smashed a paparazzo on the head with his own camera, it was J. Radcliffe Stonewiler who defended her from the charge of assault. If a rock group was found smuggling heroin into the country, J. Radcliffe Stonewiler was certain to be there for the defense. And who would defend an Arab oil minister from a paternity suit lodged in a Los Angeles court? Who else but J. Radcliffe Stonewiler.

So what in Blackstone's name was the man doing here?

For the first time in his judicial career, Judge Blick was hornswoggled.

And so was almost everybody else in court. The spectators murmured to one another like a crowd scene in a Cecil B. DeMille movie. Never had Judge Blick's court seen such excitement, not even when that hooker dropped her drawers. About the only person not impressed by it all – except the defendant himself, who simply stood there like a ragman's horse, gloomy and fatalistic – was Judge Blick's bailiff, who arose and read out the charge in his usual sloppy-dictioned way, at the finish requesting the defendant's plea.

It was Stonewiler who answered, in a large, round, confident voice, announcing, "Not guilty."