"Yeah? Fuck him.'' Vinnie stomped out the door.

I started to follow, but heard a noise behind me and turned. Coming down the winding staircase, wailing at the top of her big lungs, was Anna, wearing a robe and slippers. I started to back out the door, but she saw me. "John! John! Oh, my God! John!"

Madonn'. Do I need this?

"John!'' She came rushing toward me like a '54 Buick with oversize bumper guards. "John! They took Frank! They took him away!'' She collided with me-Boom!-and wrapped her arms around me, which was all that kept me from sprawling across the floor. She buried her face in my chest and gushed tears over my Hermes tie. "Oh, John! They arrested him!"

"Yes, I was actually here."

She kept sobbing and squeezing me. Madonna mia Madonna mia. Those tits and arms were crushing the air out of my lungs. "There, there,'' I wheezed. "Don't cry. Let's sit down."

I steered her over to a wicker chair, which was like trying to manhandle a side of beef. She wasn't wearing much under her robe, and despite the circumstances and the early hour, I found I was a wee bit cranked up by her proximity. An incredibly insane thought passed through my mind, but I got it right out of there before it got me killed.

She was sitting now, clutching my hands in hers. "Why did they take my Frank?"

Gee, Anna, I can't imagine why. I said, "I'm sure it's a mistake. Don't worry about it. I'll have him home by tonight." I said, "I'm sure it's a mistake. Don't worry about it. I'll have him home by tonight."

She yanked me down to my knees and our faces were close. I noticed that, as upset as she was, she'd dallied upstairs long enough to comb her hair, put on a little makeup, and that nice scent she used. She looked me straight in the eye and said, "Swear to me. Swear to me, John, that you will bring Frank home."

Mamma mia, what a morning this was going to be. I never had these problems at a house closing. I cleared my throat and said, "I swear it."

"On the grave of your mother. Swear it on the grave of your mother."

As best I knew, Harriet was still alive and well in Europe. But a lot of people think my parents are dead, including me sometimes, so I said, "I swear on the grave of my mother that I'll bring Frank home."

"Oh ... dear Lord ...'' She kissed my hands and blubbered awhile. I managed to get a look at my watch. "Anna, I have to go meet Frank.'' I stood, her hands still grasping mine. "I really have to go-"

"Hey, Counselor! Got to move!'' It was Vinnie, who, seeing Anna clutching me, said, "Oh, hi, Mrs. Bellarosa. Sorry about this. I gotta take Mr. Sutter to court."

I disengaged my hands and said to Anna, "Call Susan and she'll come over to keep you company. Maybe you can go shopping, play a little tennis.'' I hurried toward the door, snatched up my briefcase, and left quickly.

On the expressway into Manhattan, Lenny, behind the wheel, said, "Did you see how cool the don was?"

Vinnie, also in the front seat, replied, "Yeah. He ain't afraid of nuthin'.'' He looked back at me. "Right, Counselor?"

I was a little annoyed with these two, who had been singing Bellarosa's praises for the last ten miles, as though he'd been arrested by the KGB for prodemocracy activities and was on his way to the Lubyanka for torture. I said, "There was nothing to be afraid of except bad drivers on the expressway."

"Yeah?'' snapped Vinnie. "I've been arrested twice. You got to show balls or they fuck you around. How'd you like to be looking at ten or twenty years?"

"Hey, Vinnie,'' I replied, "if you can't do the time, don't do the crime. Capisce? Capisce?"

Lenny laughed. "Listen to this guy. He sounds like fucking Weinstein now. Hey, Counselor, how'd you act if you was thrown in a cell full of melanzane melanzane and spics?" and spics?"

"I might prefer it to being in a car with two greaseballs."

They thought that was very funny and they laughed, slapped their knees, pounded the dashboard, and Lenny hit the horn a few times while Vinnie whooped. The Italians, I'd discovered, were pretty thick-skinned when it came to ethnic humor at their expense. But there were other kinds of jokes they didn't find so amusing. You had to be careful.

Vinnie said to me, "The don is lookin' forward to lunch at Caffe Roma today, Counselor. He's gonna be there, right?"

"I hope so. If not, we'll get Caffe Roma to deliver to his cell."

Now there's an example of the kind of joke they don't find funny. In fact, Vinnie said, "That's not too fuckin' funny."

Lenny said, "If you don't walk out of that court with the don, maybe you should find another way home."

That wasn't quite a threat, but it had possibilities. I replied, "Let me worry about that. You worry about driving."

No one spoke for a while, which was fine with me. So there I was, in a black Cadillac with two Mafia goons, heading into the maws of the federal criminal justice system.

It was just nine A A.M. now and the worst of rush hour was over, but traffic was still heavy, so I didn't think there was any chance that we'd overtake Mancuso, and in fact, I didn't even know what sort of vehicle he was driving. But as it turned out, though we never saw the car that Mancuso and Bellarosa were in, I began to realize that the same four nondescript gray Fords had been keeping pace with us for some time.

Lenny said, "Look at those cocksuckers."

So I did. Each car held two men, and they were staring at us as they played a game of changing positions around us. The car to our front suddenly slowed down, and Lenny hit his brakes. "Cocksuckers!"

The gray Fords to our sides and rear boxed us in, and they slowed us down to ten miles an hour, causing the other Long Island Expressway motorists behind us, who are not known for road courtesy in the best of times, to go nearly hysterical. Horns were blaring, insults hurled, drivers pounded their foreheads against their steering wheels. They were really upset back there.

So we caused what they call on the radio "major delays'' approaching the Midtown Tunnel.

This wasn't just harassment, of course, but a rather unethical attempt to separate me from my client. I saw Ferragamo's hand in this and began to suspect that it wasn't the FBI in those cars, but Ferragamo's men from the Justice Department. I said to Lenny, "Go right to Federal Court in Foley Square."

"But the don said to meet him at the FBI headquarters."

"Do what I say."

"He'll kill us!"

"Do what I say!"

Vinnie, who had about half a functional brain, said, "He's right. We gotta get straight to the court."

Lenny seemed to understand. "Okay. But I ain't takin' this fuckin' rap, Vinnie."

I settled back in the seat and listened to the horns blaring around us. I didn't think Mancuso was in on this, and as best I could figure it, Mancuso would get a call over his car radio instructing him to go straight to Federal Court. Bellarosa could and would be booked there instead of at FBI headquarters. Then Bellarosa would be whisked in front of a judge for arraignment, and the head of New York's largest crime family would be standing there in his nice suit without an attorney. The judge would read the charge and ask Bellarosa to enter a plea. Bellarosa would say, "Not guilty,'' and the judge would order him held without bail. Frank would put up a big stink, but to no avail. Murder is a tough charge, and it would take me about two weeks to get a bail hearing. Actually, I would be well-advised to just head on down to Rio and send a postcard.

I looked at my briefcase beside me. Some of the paper assets were negotiable, and there was a cool million in cash. The Brazilians didn't ask many questions when you deposited a million U.S. in the bank, except maybe what color checks you wanted.

I looked at my watch. They were probably at Foley Square by now, but the booking process, even if it was speeded up, still had to be done according to law; there would be a body search, fingerprinting, photographs, a personal history taken, and forms to fill out. Only then would they haul Bellarosa in front of a waiting judge. So it was possible for me to charge into the courthouse, find out where Bellarosa was to be arraigned, and get into the courtroom on time. It was possible.

I remember I had a house closing in Oyster Bay once, and my car broke down ... but maybe that's not a good comparison.

Well, but what could I do? I took down the license plate numbers of our escorts, stared back at them, then picked up a newspaper lying on the seat. The Mets had beaten Montreal and were two games out of first place now. I said to my friends up front, "Hey, how 'bout them Mets?"

Vinnie said, "Yeah, you see that last night?"

We did baseball chatter awhile. I knew we had to have something in common besides the same boss and the fear of our lives.

There was a car phone in the rear, and I could have called Susan, but I had no desire to. The next time she heard anything of me would be on the afternoon news. But then I remembered she didn't read, hear, or watch the news. But maybe she'd make an exception in this case. Thanks for the challenge, Susan.

We approached the tunnel tolls, and I looked at my watch. This was going to be very close.

Twenty-seven.

We lost our escort at the Midtown Tunnel and got on the FDR Drive. Lenny turned out to be a better driver than a conversationalist, which is saying very little, and he got us quickly into and through the narrow, crowded streets of lower Manhattan. But the closer we got to Foley Square, the slower the traffic was moving. I looked at my watch. It was nine-forty, and I estimated that Mancuso and Bellarosa could have been at Foley Square for as long as thirty minutes. The wheels of criminal justice move slowly, but they're capable of a quick grind if someone such as Alphonse Ferragamo is standing there squirting oil on them.

But the wheels of the Cadillac were not moving fast at all. In fact, we were stalled in traffic near City Hall Park, and the first arraignments would begin at ten A A.M. Damn it. Damn it. I grabbed my briefcase and opened the door. I grabbed my briefcase and opened the door.

"Where you goin'?'' asked Vinnie.

"Rio.'' I exited the car before he could process that.

It was hot and humid outside the air-conditioned Cadillac, and it's not easy to run in wing-tip shoes despite their name, but all lawyers have done this at one time or another, and I headed up Centre Street toward Foley Square at a good clip. On the way, I practiced my lines. "Your Honor! Don't bang that gavel! I got money!"

The streets and sidewalks were crowded, and many of the people in this section of town were civil servants of the city, state, or federal government who, by nature, were in no particular hurry. However, there were a few other Brooks Brothers runners whom I took to be attorneys on missions similar to mine. I fell in behind a good broken-field runner, and within ten minutes I was at Foley Square, covered with sweat, my arms aching from the weight of the briefcase. I'm in pretty good shape, but running through Manhattan heat and carbon monoxide in a suit is equivalent to about three sets of tough tennis at the club.

I paused at the bottom of the forty or fifty courthouse steps and contemplated the summit a moment, then took a deep breath and charged toward the colossal columned portico. I had a mental image of my passing out and of good samaritans crowding around me, loosening my Hermes tie, and relieving me of my five-million-dollar burden. Then I'd have to hitchhike to Rio.

But the next thing I knew, I was inside the cooler lobby of the Federal Courthouse, walking purposefully across the elegant ivory-colored marble floor, then through a metal detector, which didn't go off. But a U.S. Marshal, obviously intrigued by my disheveled appearance and huge briefcase, asked me to put the briefcase on a long table and open it. So, there I was, in this massive lobby amid the hustle and bustle of a courthouse at ten A A.M., opening a briefcase stuffed with wads of money. If you've ever emptied a bag of dirty underwear at Customs, you know the feeling.

The marshal, an older man who probably thought all marshals should look and act like Wyatt Earp, stood there with his thumbs hooked in his belt, chewing a wad of something. Despite his cowboy pose, he was not wearing boots or spurs or anything like that. Instead, he was dressed in the standard marshal's courthouse uniform, which consisted of gray slacks, white shirt, red tie, and a blue blazer with the U.S. Marshal's service patch on the breast pocket. His shoes were penny loafers, and his six-gun was not strapped around his waist, but was somewhere else, probably in a shoulder holster. I was very disappointed in this outfit, but chose not to remark on it. Wyatt Earp inquired, "What's that?"

It's money, you stupid ass. "It's bail money, Marshal." "It's bail money, Marshal."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yup. I have a client being arraigned this morning."

"Is that so?"

"It is. And in fact, I don't want to miss it, so-"

"Why're you all sweaty?"

"I was actually running so as not to be late for the arraignment."

"You nervous about something?"

"No. I was running."

"Yeah? You got some kind of identification?"

"I believe I do.'' I pulled my wallet out and showed him my driver's license with my photo, and my bar association card. A few other marshals were standing around now, watching me and the money. Wyatt Earp passed my driver's license around and everyone took a look. Needless to say, a crowd was gathering, enchanted by the green stuff, so I closed the briefcase.

After my license made the rounds, including, I think, a passing janitor, I got my ID back. Earp asked me, "Who's your client, Counselor?"

I hesitated, then replied, "Bellarosa, Frank."

The marshal's eyebrows arched. "Yeah? They got that sucker? When?"

"He was arrested this morning. I really want to get to the courtroom before he comes before the judge."

"Take it easy. He'll be lucky if he sees a judge by lunchtime. You new around here?"

"Sort of.'' I added, "I need to speak with my client before the arraignment. So I'll just be on my way.'' And I was.

"Wait!"

I stopped. The marshal moseyed over to me, sort of bowlegged as if he'd been on a horse all morning, or maybe he had hemorrhoids. He said, "You know where the lockup is?"

"Actually, no."

"Well, I'll tell ya. You go to the third floor-"

"Thanks."

"Hold on. The lockup is between the marshal's area where your guy is going to be fingerprinted and photographed, and ...'' He stopped talking and moved closer to me. "You gotta go to the bathroom or something?"

I guess I seemed a little fidgety, and Wyatt could see it. He looked suspicious again, so I took the bull by the horns. "Look, Marshal, my client is going to be processed very quickly because of who he is. In fact, he's already processed. I do not want to miss the arraignment because if I do, he will not be happy with me.'' I almost added, "Capisce?'' but the guy looked Irish.

He grinned. "Yeah, you don't want to miss that arraignment, Counselor. You know where to go?"

"Third floor?"

"Right you are. Your guy been indicted and arrested, or just arrested and waiting indictment?"

"Indicted and arrested."

"Okay, then you don't want the Magistrate, you want the District Judge, Part One."

Mamma mia, this guy was going to give me a course in the federal court system. In truth, I didn't know any of this, but neither did I care. I just wanted to get to the third floor before it was too late. However, I didn't want to look panicky, which would only cause him to be more helpful or more suspicious. I smiled. "Part One. Right."

"Yeah. Part One. Third floor.'' He looked at his watch. "Hey, it's after ten. You better get a move on."

"Yes, I'd better.'' I walked, not ran, toward the elevators. I heard him call after me, "I hope you got enough money there."

I hope I have enough time, Wyatt. I took the elevators up to the third floor.

As bad luck would have it, the elevator stopped outside the Magistrate's Court, not Part One, so I was already lost. I picked a direction and walked. There were dozens of handcuffed prisoners in the corridors of justice with their arresting officers, U.S. Marshals, FBI men, attorneys for the government, attorneys for the accused, witnesses, and all sorts of people, none of whom looked happy to be there. There is something uniquely depressing about the hallways in any criminal court; the prisoners, the guards, the visible evidence of human frailty, misery, and evil.

I picked a corridor and went down it. The federal courts are distinctly different from state or municipal courts in many respects. For one thing, you usually get a higher-quality criminal, such as Wall Street types and other white-collar rip-off artists who were stupid enough to use the U.S. mails for their schemes or to branch out across state lines. Occasionally, you get a spy or traitor, and now and then (but not often enough) you get a congressman or member of the Cabinet. But I'd heard, and now I saw with my own eyes, that with the increase in federal drug cases, the quality of federal defendants was somewhat lower than in years past. In fact, I saw men who looked as if they were definitely part of the international pharmaceutical trade, and I could see why Frank Bellarosa, tough guy that he was, would just as soon avoid trouble with these new guys.