“Very funny,” Reid said grumpily as he stood to dump
our cups in the nearest trash bin. He spotted Portland
Brewer coming up the marble steps outside and, ever
the gentleman, he rushed over to hold the heavy outer
door for her. Her small red umbrella hadn’t warded off
all the wet, but she was so angry, it’s a wonder the rain-
drops didn’t sizzle as soon as they touched any exposed
skin. “Dammit, Deborah! I thought Bo and Dwight
were going to take away all of James Braswell’s guns!”
“Huh?” I said.
“He got out of jail yesterday morning and last night
he shot up Karen’s condo.”
“
“No, she’s freaking
mind.”
I made sympathetic noises, but Por was too wound
up to be easily calmed. The rain had curled her black
hair into tight little wire springs. Reid took her dripping
umbrella and made a show of holding it over the green
leaves.
“You in court this morning?” he asked her.
“After I get through blasting Dwight and Bo. Why?”
Too riled to give him her full attention, she continued
venting at me. “The only reason Karen’s still alive is that
187
MARGARET MARON
she’s been staying at her mother’s. She could have been
killed for all they care.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “That’s not fair. They
can’t put a twenty-four-hour watch on her. And besides,
how do you know it was Braswell?”
“Who else would it be? You think a sweet kid who
works at a Bojangles and takes care of an invalid mother
has that kind of enemies? Hey! Where’re you going with
my umbrella?” she called as Reid pushed open the door
for one of our clerks and kept walking.
“I’ll drop it off at your office,” he called back and
hurried down the marble steps and out into the unre-
lenting rain, Portland’s umbrella a small circle of red
over his head.
As Por stormed off in one direction, I was joined on
my walk upstairs by Ally Mycroft, a prisspot clerk who
had pointedly worn my opponent’s button during the
last election whenever she had to work my courtroom.
Making polite chatter, I asked, “You working for
Judge Parker today?”
