“He said what?” Kara dug the rounded toe of her black patent leather pumps into the carpet and felt the built in arch support slide up and dig into the top of her arch.

She sank onto the rose velvet settee, facing the quiet bustle of Pennsylvania Ave. in that blissful time between the end of school and the thickening of rush hour, and stretched her long shapely legs upon as much of the cushion as would fit. These settees were made for shorter, more melodramatic women who didn’t just play whose-is-bigger with one of the country’s top defense lawyers (and won, thank you).

“Whitmore says he can get you the wiretap, but you have to play nice.” Mitchell repeated his statement, as if to counsel a wayward child.

Kara knew the answer without Mitchell even opening his large, spin-filled mouth.

She uncrossed her legs and stood upright as Mitchell continued telling the tale, her mind already calculating the time and the begging it would take to show up with something creditable.

“Put it through.”