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006017496X, 006093087X
Best Defense

ing over Felicia. "You are soooo slow, girl. Just rip the blessed paperoff."
Felicia finally got the magazine out, and gasped as her eyes took in thecover. The portrait was nothing short of stunning: an image so much moreglamorous than the stylishly conservative thirty-nine-year-old professionalwho generally resided in her mirror. This woman was a vision from a fashionphotographer's fantasy, with dark caramel skin, long jet-black hair, a whitesilk blouse, and a playful smile that stopped just short of a sneer, withlips slightly parted, as if to whisper "I dare you."
Geneva shook her head in wonder, causing her neatly braided hair extensionsto flick against her face. "Damn, you look hot," she said. "Isthis really you?"
Felicia grinned, staring at the cover line. felicia fontaine: lawyer ofthe year. The words were practically as large as the Manhattan Woman logo.In slightly smaller type, the magazine proclaimed her "The most innovativeand unpredictable defense attorney since William Branegan."
"Interesting company they put you in," said Geneva. "Branegan,as I recall, was something of a nut."
"He wasn't a nut," said Felicia. "He was just, well, different.The polite word, I suppose, is eccentric. But he was also probably the bestlawyer I ever knew. His defense of Darnell Guilliam was absolutely brilliant.Maybe one other lawyer in the city could have gotten Guilliam off."
"Who."
"Me, of course," she said, beaming. "But even I wouldn'thave had the nerve to do what Branegan did. I mean, when you have a dope-dealingconvicted felon for a client and he's executed two plainclothes detectives,it takes real chutzpah to puthim on the stand to testify that he thoughtthe cops were hit men out to assassinate him."
"That's right. I remember now. He did do that."
"Yep. By the time Branegan was done, he had the jury convinced thecops were contract killers working for some Colombian drug lord."
"Were they?"
"Who knows? I doubt it, but anything's possible. Still, his closingargument was so good, he nearly had me convinced that Guilliam had performeda public service. If I had been on that jury, even I might have let himoff . . . And I was a prosecutor at the time."
Felicia sighed, her expression suddenly serious. "You know, I misstalking to him. We didn't agree on much of anything, certainly not on politics.And his style was way too flamboyant, even for me, but we had somethingof the same attitude—a sort of subversive approach to jurisprudence. Healso had the best sense of humor of just about anybody I've ever known.But then his clients were so wretched—terrorists, religious fanatics, dementedkillers—that he probably needed to keep laughing just to get him throughthe day."
"So this is the man whose shoes you're going to fill?"
"Be serious. Branegan was one of a kind. Plus, he lived for the law.I have other priorities."
"Like paying for this big-ass place."
"That's one of them."
"Well, girlfriend, congratulations. You are definitely on your way.But don't let this stardom stuff go to your head. Just like they can buildyou up, they can take you down. And believe me, they can do it in the timeit takes to blink. Anyway, got to run. Got a hot date."
"Really?" asked Felicia, feigning astonishment.
"Yeah, with my two sons. Think we're going out for pizza. Talk to youtomorrow."

After Geneva left, Felicia opened the magazine to the beginning of the profile.The photo inside was almost as striking as the cover shot. Wearing a lavenderblouse and a dark blue power suit, she was holding her glasses in her lefthand, looking both scholarly and seductive. "Felicia Fontaine: Nobody'svictim," read the caption. The spread went on for ten full pages, hittingevery highlight of her career. There was criticism to be sure. "A showboat,all flash and no substance," one unidentified "former colleague"called her. But the barbs were few, and they were more than balanced withthe sort of lavish praise normally reserved for eulogies.
She tossed the magazine to the center of the cocktail table, letting loosea chuckle of delight. Manhattan Woman might not be the big-time, but itwas more than respectable. "Yep. You're doing all right for yourself,girl," she said, savoring the satiny sound of her voice.
What would Branegan make of her modest fame? she wondered. At the very least,he would find it amusing. And he would probably warn her—just as Genevahad—not to take it terribly seriously. "Find a suitably modest wayto declare your superiority, but never make the mistake of believing you'reas good as you claim," Branegan had once advised with a wink. The suggestionwas not particularly original, but it certainly summed up his own approachto life, and she had tried to follow it as best she could.
She had never been quite sure what had drawn Branegan to her. At first shehad assumed it was sexual attraction, but he had made it clear, in myriadsubtle ways, that he had no interest in sleeping with her. "I'm a sixty-six-year-oldman with a young wife at home. She's all I can handle," he had joked.Perhaps he merely admired her audacity, she had concluded, which mirrored—albeitfaintly—his own. By the time she and Branegan had become devoted, if somewhatwary, chums she had been practicing law for nearly a decade. She had alreadymastered the art of making a powerful impression, having realized that image,especially for those in the public arena, is a source of power; that perception,in the realm of human affairs, is invariably more important than reality.Her first high-profile case, the prosecution of Geoff Jay, had driven thatlesson deep into her bones.