"Good evening, Counselor," he said, taking the seat across my desk from me. He looked different without his judicial robes, not quite as much my senior as I had thought. He wasn't any taller than I was, perhaps five feet nine, and thirty pounds lighter. Between us we had about an average forehead—his went up to the top of his head—my hairline starts about where my eyebrows leave off. Robes or no robes, there was something judicial about him, as though he'd been born with a gavel in his hand.
"Good evening, Your Honor," I said to Judge Passarelli. "You have a pretty active pipeline into Stigma circles, don't you?"
It didn't bother him. "As long as judgeships are elective offices, Maragon," he said. "Judges will play politics. Fill me in on this Mary Hall thing."
"Without violating professional ethics?" I asked.
"You'll try cases again, in front of judges," he snapped not very judicial. "Don't get me angry with you, Maragon."
I countered: "The shoe is on the other foot—I'm darned sore at you." He tried to find his receding hairline with his thin eyebrows. "Don't look so amazed—do you think I haven't figured out my defending that TK Crescas was no accident? You set me up for it."
"Set you up for a resoundingly successful defense," he observed.
"And a resoundingly bad press!" I said. "I have a living to make in this town—"
"Psis are still citizens," he said. "I'm tired of seeing them thrown to the wolves by the jackals who practice law from a phone booth. Psis deserve a decent defense. Without you, Crescas would be in prison."
