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to get through the six-month evaluations. Sam made him look good. Together,
they made a powerful team. Clinton-and-Sorensen, never referred to singularly
and they wanted it
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that way. They drew the more difficult cases, worked them deftly, only rarely
bringing in a loser to molder in the unsolved file drawer. Jake just missed
being a joke in his rumpled leisure suits dappled with cigar ashes, his gut
bulging over his belt, and his eyes magnified behind thick glasses. He
dithered and wasted time and energy, but with Sam he was transformed into
something better, into a working dick with thirty years' experience. They
filled in the chinks in each other's armor.
When Sam met Nina, she caught him to her before he could see the danger. The
others had been young, so young that their personalities could not harm him.
Nina was lost when he met her; she'd been lost for a long time, and yet he was
drawn to her by the sheer strength of her mind.
The homicide dicks steered clear of Nina Armitage, wary of a brilliant woman,
vaguely resentful of a woman in a business rightfully peopled by males. They
brought cases to her in the prosecutor's office only because they had to. Nina
had climbed to the position of chief criminal deputy, not through her
charmsùfor she betrayed noneùbut because she was one hell of an attorney. She
worked three times as hard as any man, driving her slender, awkward body
beyond what seemed the point of endurance, and kept on going.
She considered all policemen, including the chief, dumb cops, and even in
court, even when they were on her side, she questioned them in a patronizing
way. Behind her back they called her "the titless wonder," and worse.
Still, Sam was enthralled by her presence in the courtroom, never giving
ground or depending on her femaleness to curry favor with judge or jury. She
was as caustic as lye, her voice so husky it seemed she fought consciously to
keep any feminine modulation from it. Her long, straw-colored hair hung in her
face as she bent over the yellow legal pads, scribbling constantly, and she
tossed it back with the impatience that was an integral part of her. Her skin
was pale and freckled. True, she appeared to have no breasts, but Sam thought
her long legs were sensational.
When they carried their cases to her so carefully catalogued,
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so neatly sprinkled with "probable causes" and good physical evidence, she got
them their arrest warrants, their search warrants, and never seemed to
differentiate one cop from another. They were all "Officer" to herùnever
"Detective." And, for her, they seemingly had no names at all.
Jake couldn't stand the woman. "Sammy," he muttered one afternoon after a,
two-hour session in her crowded little office in the courthouse, "you know how
all blacks and Filipinos and Japs look alike to us? Well, all cops look alike
to that skinny bitch. Put you and me and Cap and Little John and Big John in a
line-up, and I'll bet you she couldn't tell one from another."
Sam laughed, but half agreed. He'd never seen her smile, and she never even
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looked up when he tried to banter with her.
"She never leaves that building," Jake said. "She just crawls into a file
drawer at night and goes to sleep. You cut her and all you'll get is dust."
Sam had been as surprised to see her on a rainy Tuesday midnight in the back
booth of the Golden Gavel as if he'd run across the mayor himself sitting
there with four scotches lined up in front of him.
"Hey, you! Clinton! Have a seat," she called. "I'll even move so you can face
the door. You're all paranoid about your back to the door, aren't you? You've
seen too many movies about Luciano and Capone."
He'd sat down, staring at her. She was drunk, but alcohol gave Nina a softer
look, a gentler mien, despite her smart mouth.
"I never thought you knew my name," he said grabbing one of her scotches.
"Now I have to order another." She lifted her hand and waved languidly to the
bartender who appeared with one more scotchùneat.
"I know your name. I know all your names. The titless wonder never forgets
anything."
He looked down at the rings on the table top, embarrassed.
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"You thought I didn't know what you guys call me? I could tell you the others,
if you like?"
"No thanks. For the record, I never called you any of those names."
"A genuine gentleman. But you don't like me any better than the rest of them
do. You all have wives and girlfriends, and you all think women are supposed
to cook and fuck and stay dumb, right?"
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