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Ralph and I skipped breakfast the next morning. Roger had asked us to meet him at court at eight a.m., even though Jerome’s hearing wasn’t scheduled until nine. I was feeling pleased with myself, all cleaned up wearing navy slacks, a pale blue silk women’s button-down shirt (a men’s oxford over a tank top is my usual road uniform), my high-heeled boots, and even a little makeup. I was feeling pleased, that is, until I saw Roger. It wasn’t fair. I shuddered to think of what time he must have left Tallahassee, but he still looked as if he’d stepped from a fine men’s catalogue. His suit, a single-breasted navy pinstripe, appeared not just cut for him, but designed for him … The Roger. No, that sounded like something unpleasant … The Weber.
“Roger, you’re looking resplendent as always,” I
