"You know it—and damn well! I've got six witnesses who saw Tony walk into the bank with that sawed-off shotgun! I've got four more who saw him get panicky and start spraying lead! And there are a dozen others who helped load him on a stretcher after his getaway car went over the curve on the Parkway!... Hell, Jake, this is a two-bit case. Why are you taking it away from the Public Defender?"
"Now, Emmett," Jake mocked, "you know it's not ethical for me to discuss my client's case."
"To hell with your client!" The D.A. breathed deeply for a moment, then pressed ahead: "I don't care about that punk—I'm talking about you, Jake. What's this case mean to you?"
The chuckle started again, then died in Jake's throat.
"It means a lot, Emmett," he answered soberly. "For one thing, it's my last case...."
"What?" The D.A. looked stunned.
Jake nodded.
"I've been around the circle enough times for any man, Emmett."
Both of them absorbed this thought in silence, and the long years walked between them. The D.A.'s lips set, and the steel of his jaw showed beneath the soft folds of his skin.
"I guess it'll have to be my last case, too, Jake," he said quietly. Then he banged his fist on the desk. "But what a helluva case! What a helluva two-bit case! We've had some good ones, Jake—I've got the scars of them all over me! But why do we have to go out on something as cheap as this?"