God! but I love old courthouses. There's absolutely incredible beauty to be found in the brick and stone designs in rural America, where the courthouse is at the center of the town square, and there's usually a one-way street that goes around it, with shops and law offices, and yes, empty windows as well, watching the four entrances to see what goes on. It's ... interesting ... to say the least to walk up to the courtroom on the third floor on marble steps that have been worn away by hundreds of thousands of feet until there's a sag in the middle of each one like someone was only able to scoop out a thin layer of really hard ice cream.

Just imagine the ordinary citizens, the just plain folks, who had walked up these steps ... to pay a traffic ticket, record a deed, get a marriage license, to get a divorce, accuse your neighbor of letting his cows run loose in your pasture, to pay your taxes, register to vote, to sue because you slipped and fell on the slick wooden floors of the five-and-dime (the floors you walked on since you were five and you knew damned well were slick) and hope to get your money before the doors are shut forever, to defend yourself for stealing a horse and buggy, or for murdering homeless men who'd come looking for a handout, for work, burying them deep and neat, but not so neat and not so deep they were never found.

And then there's the courtroom itself ... the one the presiding judge here uses. Tall ceilings, tall enough you could build a second floor within the room, and still have ceilings on each floor that were higher than normal. The county must have been flush in those days. The paneling is solid mahogany, not some thin veneer, but the real thing, and every inch, every intricate curve of the half-pillars in the four corners, and the two along each wall; every swirl of the ornate carving of each three-foot-square section of the ceiling has been polished and repolished until it almost shines with a light of its own. The judge's bench is ebony, simple lines to emphasize the grain of the wood, an austere and powerful contrast to the deep red-brown glow of the mahogany. The juror's chairs with the worn wine-colored cushions, the lawyers' tables, are some other dark wood, gleaming with age, miraculously unscarred, almost as if every generation of lawyers and clients and juries made up of one's peers were too afraid, or too awed, for the usual careless kicking and scratching and doodling with a knife-point (back in the days when that was even possible in a courthouse) or a ballpoint that would have left a century's worth of "Kilroy was here" marks.

America at its most awesome. Justice in truly hallowed halls.

There. Somewhere in all of that was a sound bite that CNN could use for the late news, or NBC, or the BBC, or whoever else would be waiting in the square when we got done tonight. And I do mean tonight. In this trial, we broke for dinner at five, came back at six—the jurors had their meals catered, we fended for ourselves—and worked until at least eight. At which time the jurors were excused, and we had another chambers conference. Followed by dealing with the press, and getting an actual meal, and doing all the work that had to be done before eight the next morning because the judge decided he knew better than you how to try your case.

God, I hate federal judges. Like I tell associates as they start the ass-kissing ladder-climb to partnership, federal judges screw you for no reason at all, well, except perhaps to prove that they can since they're appointed for life. And then they do it again, just to make sure you get the point. And if the trial is big enough, like this one, at least once more to be sure you don't forget.

The plaintiffs filed suit in state court, and I removed it to federal court since there was diversity jurisdiction ... all the plaintiffs lived in this state, the seven corporate defendants "lived" elsewhere ... and the money the plaintiffs were demanding was a hundred times the jurisdictional amount. They tried to get it remanded on a technicality, but I beat them. So I was all set for a comfortable two or three months in a large city, with plenty of bars and parties and other diversions, when the judge decided to try the case here ... in the same goddamned courthouse where the plaintiffs' lawyer walked up to the second floor and filed the fucking suit in the first place. That was the first time.

And speaking of time, it was time I started paying attention again. Not that I was ignoring the direct examination of one of the plaintiffs' experts. I have a kind of autopilot that lets me listen to what's going on, sort of like background music, when the odds are nothing important is going to happen, while thinking of something else ... like sound bites and federal judges ... but if something does happen, my reflexes are quick enough to kick my mind and mouth into gear so I can respond. Nothing was happening, but it was about time to break this prick's stride. He was good, not in my league, but good and he was certain to give me an opening.

He did.

"Objection." I carefully didn't look at the jury as I rose, well, not directly, just enough so that they could see how much it pained me ... just the merest flicker of regret across my eyes and lips ... to have to interrupt. Again.

"Overruled." The judge's voice snapped out just as I straightened up. What the fuck?

"Your Honor..."

"Counsel, I've made my ruling."

"I understand, your Honor." I spoke quickly, but not so quickly the court reporter couldn't hear and follow. "But may I at least make a record of my objection, just to protect my clients' rights?" I thought my slight head turn towards the jury was subtle enough, so they could see the expression that told them how valiantly I was laboring under the burdens imposed by this judge, all to protect the rights of my poor clients. Clients whose salaries and perks for their CEOs were in the aggregate more than the gross national product of several small countries combined. I must have been slipping. The gavel bang! caused everyone's head to snap towards the bench. Including mine.

"Counsel, when you are speaking to me, speak to me, and not the jury. Do you understand?"

"Yes, your Honor." Right. Like I had a choice about what to say at that moment.

"Make your objection."

I did, and the iceberg that sank the Titanic just stared at me, long enough to be sure I got the message, short enough so that he couldn't be accused of denying my clients a fair trial by being unduly harsh on me out of some personal-appearing animosity. He didn't bother with the gavel. "Your objection is still overruled." Bastard. He didn't have to rub it in. All he had to do was say one word.

I sat down.

The plaintiffs' lawyer started to resume direct, but the judge held up a hand to silence him. He picked up an old and ornate gold pocket watch, pressed the stem so that the cover popped open, and checked the time. The clock on the wall could have told him it was 11:45 a.m. He closed the lid on the watch, set it down.

"We will break now for lunch, and reconvene today at two o'clock." You could feel the surprise in the courtroom; the one-hour, noon to one o'clock, lunch break had been as rigidly enforced as the rest of his rules. But when you're a federal judge...

He gave the usual admonition to the jury ... don't talk about the case, don't think about the case, blah, blah, blah ... and then the bailiff banged her gavel and we all rose to pay our respects to the jurors as they filed out. We started to do the usual lunch-time packing up, and I had just turned away to start to give my chief paralegal some instructions, when the judge said, "Counsel."

There were seven lawyers in front of the bar. There were probably a dozen or so in the courtroom, some our associates, others just local lawyers dropping by to see what was going on. There were all the plaintiffs' family members, and the media, and other hangers-on filling the place to overflowing. And everyone in the goddamned room knew that the word was directed at me.

I turned around, looked up at him standing behind the bench. I lifted one eyebrow in question, a perfectly innocent "me?" expression. He ignored it and just said two words. "Chambers. Now."

I shrugged, spreading my arms a little in a "but of course" gesture. My colleagues and staff didn't say a word. They didn't have to. Some of them were commiserating with me, some of them were confident I could handle whatever came up, some of them thought I deserved whatever the judge was going to do ... and I knew precisely who felt what. Which was unfortunate for some of them. Plaintiffs' counsel was doing a pretty fair Chernobyl imitation, radiating smugness.

After packing my briefcase with the materials I wanted to review over lunch, or whatever small amount of time I had after this meeting, I crossed the courtroom, and pushed on the door the judge had gone through. It was locked. Prick! The only person left who might have seen that tiny bit of public humiliation was a young associate of mine, and she was more than smart enough to appear as though she had seen nothing, and leave quickly. I didn't bother with the other doors behind the bench area and the witness box, both because of the possibility they, too, would be locked, and because I didn't like the picture of me foolishly rattling doorknobs if someone came back into the courtroom.

At a leisurely pace, I left the courtroom by the main doors, ignored the crowd in the hall and the media, acting as if it had always been my intention to keep the judge waiting by taking the long way around. When I reached his chambers I lifted my hand to knock, but a voice suddenly behind me told me to go in. I looked over my shoulder. It was Antonio, the judge's senior law clerk. Short, stocky, leaning toward the plump side, mustached, late twenties, graduate of Harvard and Harvard Law on a full scholarship, a merit scholarship my staff had found out, not one of those give-a-Latino-something-he-could-never-earn things. Always Antonio, never Anglicized to Anthony and definitely not shortened to Tony. The judge was rigid with his formalities, so Antonio it was.

Daniel Whitfield Mayhew III, Chief Judge of the District Court was looking out the window when I came in. He didn't bother to turn around. I didn't bother to announce my presence. Instead I just admired the room again. I always admire what wealth can do. The presiding judge down here came from old money, very old money, and he'd spent a lot of it getting elected and staying elected. He'd also spent a lot of it renovating the judges' chambers throughout the courthouse, not just his own. It seems that the citizens wanted their courtrooms to be a class act, but they weren't particularly inclined to give their judges plush quarters as well. Judge Donovan took care of that oversight. The room was paneled in mahogany as well, with a large leather couch, several over-stuffed leather chairs and a teak coffee table in one corner that made a nice conference area. The rugs were thick and soft; the drapes at the windows were equally elegant, a deep wine color with an intricate pattern that was visible but not distracting.

At last Judge Mayhew deigned to turn around. He found me still standing in the doorway, with Antonio behind me and slightly to my left. A law clerk doesn't sit before the judge and the lawyers do. The judge and I stared at each other, with me having to look up just a bit. Judge Mayhew is 6'4, with moderately short hair the rich color of antique silver, the kind that always looks like it's been polished carefully for generations, and definitely doesn't come out of a bottle. He had dark eyes, and at 61, a face with remarkably few lines, other than the two that slashed downward from that oh-so-aristocratic nose. His mouth was thin, although whether that was natural or just because he was pissed at me, I wasn't sure. I hadn't seen him often during the course of discovery and pretrial when he wasn't at least mildly pissed at me. The black robe was open, revealing a glaringly white dress shirt, a bright red tie, and surprisingly fitted black trousers on a body that was still slender.

He was looking at 38 years old, 6'2 inches, 190 pounds to his 150 or so, light brown hair that rippled down to my shoulders, wide face, dark brown eyes, fairly full lips, wide shoulders and wide chest to set off the no waist, no hips, all put together in a package of very well-tailored Armani. Oh, yeah. A one-carat ruby stud was in my left ear. Not exactly your typical corporate defense lawyer, but when you're as good as I am you can afford to make a fashion statement ... or any other kind of statement.

Judge Mayhew held my eyes for a while longer, and then shifted his stare to look me over from head to toe like he was inspecting some beef he was about to buy, or to judge from his expression, something slightly distasteful he'd found on the bottom of his shoe. When he was done, and looking me in the eyes again, I did the same thing to him, perhaps lingering a second too long on his crotch before looking him in the eyes again, though there was a slight smile on my face. The smile could have been for any reason, and as I usually did, I let the recipient decide on the reason. Tends to unnerve them when I do that.

His lips tightened, then relaxed, and for an instant there was a glint in his eyes I couldn't quite decipher. The door opened and shut behind me, and the judge allowed his expression to soften for a moment so short I would have thought it was my imagination, except that I'm too good an observer to imagine things that aren't there.

"I believe you have already met my other law clerk," the judge said. "Daniel, this is Perry..." the pause was slight but just enough for anyone to fill it in with the obvious but inaccurate "Mason" (I still haven't forgiven my parents for that initial) before he finished with " ... M. Scheffrin."

Actually, I hadn't met the judge's new law clerk. His son. Daniel Whitfield Mayhew IV. First in his class at M.I.T. with a double major in physics and computer science. First in his class at the University of Kansas School of Law. Both degrees earned with a combination of scholarships and jobs and not a cent of his family's money. Apparently the only thing he'd ever accepted from his father was whatever favors were called in to bend the rules to allow him to clerk for dear old dad. Although no one was stupid enough to call it nepotism or say anything about it. He was, if anything, better qualified for the job than anyone else in the country. My research staff does their job very well or they get fired.

He came up to my right and I turned to greet him, extending my hand to shake his. High-powered lawyer being gracious to the new kid on the block. The pause before our hands met was a tiny hiccup of motion. My hiccup.

My research staff was about to be fired. Actually, I had met the judge's new law clerk.

I'd fucked him last Saturday night. Twice. And sucked his cock. And gotten fucked by him Sunday morning. Twice. He'd had my ass for breakfast, sucking out the cum he'd deposited there. I returned the favor a while later in lieu of lunch.

Oh, shit.

Also, fuck.

I don't think any of those thoughts crossed my face as we shook hands, although there was a suspicious gleam of humor in Danny's eyes. Danny was all he had told me while we stood close together at the bar, my index finger sliding in and out of his ass through the "torn" spot that just happened to be right over his hole. And naturally he has to have a close relationship with his father, so he can tell daddy who he tricked with last weekend. Shit!

I turned back to the judge, marshalling my best quizzical expression, ready to deny any knowledge of that incredible mouth, that hot ass, but he cut me off before my lips even parted. "Don't bother, counselor. Daniel has already told me."

Well, duh! I thought, but only thought, and kept my mouth shut. You want to give me a clue here, you lifetime asshole? Did he tell you we ran into each other at a bar and had a drink, or did he tell you he had his tongue so far up my butt if I'd swallowed coffee it would have gone into his throat? Did he tell you we had a pleasant conversation about practicing law, or that I made him scream when I came in his ass?

Only a second or so passed while the judge just stared at me, unblinking. He must have signaled somehow, but my mind was so messed up right then that I missed it. I got my answer when Danny's right hand relieved me of my briefcase, while his left hand rested on my shoulder, and then he had both hands on my coat, and Antonio was on the other side, and they were sliding the coat off very carefully. Antonio stepped back to put the coat ... somewhere. I didn't even think to give him my usual it's-Armani-if-you-fuck-it-up-I'll-rip-your-arms-off-and-ram-them-down-your-throat speech. I was caught by Judge Mayhew's eyes.

We were doing some sort of Rikki Tikki Tavi thing and right then I was real confused about who was the mongoose and who was the cobra. And while we stared Danny and Antonio undid the ruby and gold cufflinks, and pulled my suspenders off my shoulders, and undid my tie, and unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it out of my pants and peeled it off me. I was alone, or rather temporarily untouched, half-naked in front of the judge, while they set the cufflinks, shirt and tie down behind me. Then they were back again, each one with a hand behind my shoulder, a hand in front of it, and while the back hand just held my flesh, the front hands wandered, palms down, through the thick hair on my chest, pausing for just a moment to knead my pecs, which made my nipples hard, and therefore very visible, before sliding down until their thumbs touched at my navel, and their fingertips worked their way inside the waistband of my trousers and boxers.

The hands on my back slid downwards as well, each one cupping an ass cheek briefly before the four hands began removing my suspenders. Antonio's right hand gathered them up and I sensed more than saw him fling the suspenders towards a chair or the couch. The hands were back to playing with my ass, while they unbuttoned my pants and unzipped the fly. Christ, this thing was so smooth, you'd almost think they'd ... done it ... before...

The judge continued to stare, ignoring the question in my eyes, as his law clerks pulled my trousers down to my thighs, knelt, and lifted first one foot and then the other to remove the Bally loafers. My pants came off next, and while they were still down there they got my socks off.

I was almost naked in a room with three fully-dressed men. I was also very obviously hard beneath the boxers. They were very obviously hard beneath their trousers. The judge spoke. "You have two options, counselor. You can remove the boxers yourself, or get dressed and leave. Either way, nothing ever happened in this room."