She was on her way out the door to have lunch with a judge whom she considered the antithesis of Van Rawlins when Gina raced up to her at the elevator.
"There's a call I think you'll want," she said, out of breath.
Casey raised one eyebrow. "Who?"
"It's your old professor, Lipton. The one who killed his student."
CHAPTER 7
"I'm entirely innocent. My case is a classic study of the all too typically overzealous police mentality and, quite frankly, circumstantial bad luck."
Casey looked across the plastic-topped table at her former professor. It was surreal to see him here, dressed in a flame orange jumper with the back of an armed guard's head bobbing in the window outside the door. Although she knew he'd been shot, Lipton showed no signs of the distress or fatigue that would normally accompany such an episode. His face was the same as it had been nearly fifteen years ago, those brilliant, piercing blue eyes, the rakish wavy blond hair. Maybe the hair, like his suntan, had faded, but she didn't know if that was from his incarceration or from age. His demeanor, too, was the same. He sat bolt upright with his chin held high and spoke in snappish commanding phrases.
"You'll take the case, of course," he said. He took out a pair of reading glasses that she didn't remember him having. Still, they were fashionable and did nothing to detract from his appearance. He looked down at the files he'd carried in with him and shuffled through them in a businesslike manner.
"Why did Michael Dove withdraw?" Casey wanted to know.
"Is it appropriate for an attorney to inquire into the privileged discourse between her client and a third-party attorney?" Lipton demanded. He was glaring over the tops of his glasses.
"No," Casey said, shaking her head. "I suppose it isn't."