“Just a minute,” Whitewell said. “I demand to know—”
“Wait outside.”
She nodded and walked through the door, shoulders back, chin up, hips swinging with just enough exaggeration to indicate that she knew what we thought and was telling us what we could do about it.
The door closed. Kleinsmidt said, “Well?”
Whitewell started to say something.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted.
He looked at me with his eyebrows arched in the silent interrogation of one who is too well-bred to show annoyed surprise in any other way.
“You’ve already said it,” I told him. “You weren’t there. You can’t add to that, and—” and I paused significantly — “you can’t subtract from it.”
Kleinsmidt whirled to glare at me. “Lawyer?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything.