CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Roger Riley dressed for court. As he put the gold pin through the collar of his sharply starched and pressed pinpoint oxford shirt, he whistled a happy tune. “Roger. You’re a winner,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. He knew it. Everybody knew it.

“Today is the day, my man. Today, you’ll beat Stuart Barnett’s ass in federal court. Barnett will be finished. Dead in the water.”

A big wide grin split Roger’s face as if he’d won the biggest prize in the world. Roger would conquer Barnett, once and for all. When Roger finished with Barnett today, Barnett would never practice law effectively in this town again. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the one, the only ‘king of courts,’ Roger Riley,” he exclaimed, mimicking a boxing promoter, as he examined his appearance for tiny flaws. He found none. He could almost see a crown on his head. He laughed.

Roger had worked all day the day before, sequestered in his study at home until the wee hours of the morning. He had studied like he hadn’t done since he’d passed the bar exam. He ignored his office, his telephone calls, and all forms of distraction. No television, radio, or even newspapers. No sex. He trained like an athlete, with the single-mindedness of the big stars. Nothing was more important than his preparation. Roger was ready. Barnett didn’t have a chance.

Alive with anticipation, Roger felt every nerve cell in his body tingle. He smoothed down the bright orange Hermes tie he’d bought on his last trip to Palm Beach, slipped on the fine Italian custom-made suit jacket, and stepped back to admire the total effect.

Roger liked what he saw. The outfit would be perfect on video for the news cameras. He’d ordered his staff to get the cameras to the courthouse this morning, pronto. They would film him on his way into and out of the building, both. He’d prepared appropriate sound bites for his confident entrance and his victorious exit, and right here and now he practiced them once more.

One thought temporarily soured Roger’s good mood. Damn federal court, anyway. In state court, the cameras could be right in the courtroom. They could record, for posterity, the excellent performance he’d deliver. In state court, Roger could get a copy of the game tape. He could splice it in a continuous loop and play the tape in his office, day and night. But for federal court, he’d have to be satisfied with the video of his before and after sound bites. All the drama would be sucked out of his victory, like one of those space-saving bags that flattened a down body-pillow into the size of a cereal box.

Well, Roger reminded himself, it couldn’t be helped. His good mood returned. Barnett had chosen the forum for their standoff. And Roger knew why Barnett had chosen federal court. Barnett was a wuss, that was why.

So what if Barnett had once been a navy fighter pilot? He’d gone soft. Too much cerebral work across the bridge in that tall office building with the rarefied air. Too many fawning people bowing to his every whim.

Barnett only wanted to play on the field where he thought he had the advantage. Where he believed he could win. Never mind. Roger’s victory would be all the sweeter for the extra effort that would be required. Roger would beat Barnett on his favorite turf.

The doorbell rang. Roger had scheduled his driver to pick him up at home in the Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, his favorite of the three luxury cars he owned. He’d managed to wrestle it from the third Mrs. Roger Riley in their divorce. Roger had bought the Rolls from a CEO he’d stomped into submission during the tobacco cases, so the car had special significance. Roger smiled at the memory, which filled him with pride.

The Rolls was a part of today’s carefully choreographed public performance. Roger would be seen in the Rolls, but not driving it. How gauche. No.

The entrance he wanted to make was meticulously framed: important, successful, champion of the people, Roger Riley arrives at the coliseum to eviscerate the king lion, for once and for all. Roger grinned to himself at the image and resisted the urge to break into song.