CHAPTER FORTY-FIVEI hate banquets. I hate any occasion that requires wearing a dress. Lately, when I go to court, I’ve been getting by with pantsuits, depending on whether the judge is able to handle such a radical concept. I’d managed to scrape up a decent form-fitting navy knit number that ended a few inches above the knee.
I checked myself in the mirror, adjusted one leg of my tights and swore. “We should be having fun, not going to some stuffy-ass banquet,” I muttered.
“Are you ready?” Jamila appeared at the door, dressed to the nines in a shiny black sequined sheath with a bolero jacket.
“I hate tights. My legs feel like sausages.” I struggled with the hose, twisting and pulling. After a final yank, I said, “Fine. I’m ready.”
“Aren’t you going put on makeup?”
I waved a hand and m
