"I feel like s**t," Michael groaned. It was halfway into the fifteen-minute recess the judge had granted at his request. In the privacy of the courthouse's lawyers' lounge, Maggie touched the underside of her wrist to his forehead.
"You look like s**t. Your eyes are all glassy and you're warm," she said, shaking her head. "You should be home in bed. Ask for a continuance."
That morning he'd come to the office with a slight headache which he had ignored. Now his head seemed ready to explode and he felt both cold and hot at the same time. His body ached, and he felt shaky.
"I don't want to do that. This little s**t has taken up enough of my time. Our time."
In the eighteen months that Maggie had been with Murphy, Rannigan, this was the third time Nathan Menzel, errant son of C
