“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”
“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.
“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”
Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her and she got quickly to her feet.
“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.
Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his desk with a clenched hand.
“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are under the protection of this court.”
“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”
Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.
Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him down.