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B y Monday morning, after spending Sunday cocooned in my house, napping and working, I was back to my usual optimistic self. Or, maybe, stubborn self. Either way, I wasn't letting some low-rent criminal with bad spelling push me out of town.

I headed straight for the courthouse, since my hearing on the non-party production I'd served on Orange Grove Production was set for nine o'clock. I wanted all of their records about anything and everything to do with those bad insulin commercials. If I were right, and BDC was trying to cover up the fact that they'd known about the adverse reactions well before they'd reported it, somebody at BDC was in serious trouble.

It wouldn't hurt Charlie's case, either.

Sarah Greenberg had filed a blistering set of objections, claiming attorney work product. Work product is the stuff lawyers prepare for actual or expected litigation, and it's generally exempt from discovery. That means we don't have to turn it over to the other side.

This can include reports from non-lawyer third parties. So, for example, if I hired a private investigator to research something about the case, the private investigator's findings and report would usually (remember, this is law, there are always loopholes) be considered attorney work product, and therefore exempt from discovery.

But claiming that information about the filming and production of commercials — that not only weren't secret, but that were actually created to be aired on public television — could be shielded from discovery under the work-product doctrine was a long reach on Sarah's part. No judge in the country would agree with her.

Or at least, so I believed, and so I'd fired back in my responses to her objections. Now we'd find out if Greenberg and Smithies' claims of "friendly" local judges had any basis in fact. Contrary to what TV and the movies might portray, I'd never yet met a judge who didn't appear to be fair and unbiased. Call me na?ve – and I'm not saying that they were all brilliant legal minds – but the bar would come down hard on any judges who played favorites.

As I drove up to the courthouse, I realized I was smiling what Max would call my shark smile. This was a courtroom I was itching to conquer, which just goes to show that I should stick to my own arena. Civil litigation was my ballpark; from now on I'd leave the criminal law to the criminal attorneys.

The shark smile reminded me to call Max. I parked and pulled out my cell phone. She answered on the first ring.

"I'm here. Getting ready to find out exactly how bad Sarah looks this early in the morning," I said.

Max laughed, but then her voice turned serious. "Watch her face when you walk in, D. If she had anything to do with the alligator, she's going to be surprised to see you, or at least expecting you to be all freaked out."

"Don't worry, I'll be watching her like a shark."

"Isn't that 'like a hawk'?"

"That, too." I flipped the phone closed, then reopened it and shut it off completely. I'd known judges who fined lawyers a thousand dollars a pop for cell phones that rang in court. I didn't exactly have that kind of cash lying around these days. I put it in the pocket of my jacket, so I'd remember to turn it back on after the hearing.

As I walked to my courtroom, I aimed my icy-lawyer-of-death glare at anybody who dared to stare at me or, worse, snicker when I walked by. It would probably take a day or seventy to live down my "Founding Fathers" snafu, but today would be a good start.

Speaking of utter humiliation, Matt Falcon rounded a corner, looking down at a file, and nearly walked into me. I stepped to the side in time to avoid a collision. As he looked up with a ready smile, I saw the recognition flicker in his eyes. "Hey, December Vaughn. How nice to almost run into you today."

I smiled. "Nice to see you, Matt. Busy saving the world from crime and hapless lawyers who cite the Founding Fathers?"

I could see he was surprised I'd brought it up (and looked so calm doing so). Lead with your weakness, as any good trial lawyer will tell you, and you leave the opponent with nothing to exploit.

It works well as a philosophy of life, too. Maybe I'd get it printed on t-shirts.

He smiled a slow smile of appreciation. Both for the tactic and for the hot pink suit with the white silk chemise I wore, I was guessing. "You are a very interesting woman, December Vaughn."

"So I keep hearing. Sarah Greenberg is about to find out just how interesting," I replied. "Nice to see you again, Matt, but I have to get going."

He stepped out of my way. "Go get 'em, Counselor. But first, how about dinner?"

"I rarely have dinner at this time of the morning. I hate to litigate on a full stomach. Some other time, perhaps?" I smiled and moved on, not waiting for his response, somehow knowing that he was watching me walk off.

It seemed only fair, since I'd done the same to him. I had the feeling Matt Falcon was the persistent type, and I'd wind up having dinner with him before too much longer.

Might even be fun.

All thoughts of fun and dinner vanished when I swung open the door to the courtroom and saw Sarah Greenberg already there, standing with a small cluster of a half-dozen men. Some looked like baby lawyers from her firm; a couple wore shirt sleeves and khaki pants, and were probably reps from Orange Grove Productions. Those two looked nervous and a little scared, the way their eyes kept darting around the room.

All eyes fixed on me when I walked in, which only steadied my nerves even further. I thought Sarah paled a bit when she saw me, but that was probably my imagination. She certainly didn't run over and say, "you should be dead in the alligator's belly!" which would have been helpful in narrowing down my suspects.

Alligators aside, I'd had the luck (although it didn't feel like it at the time) to work for some of the worst pit bull trial lawyers in the country at True, Everett. After being screamed at for twenty minutes in the conference room on Thanksgiving Day for my failure to triple-check a paralegal's work, pretty much nothing fazed me.

Especially not Sarah "Overboard" Greenberg.

We said polite hellos, but then I crossed immediately to my table and arranged my files on the table. The bailiff entered and announced the judge, and we "All Rise'd" for the Honorable Judge Bernard Bertels.

I tried not to cringe. I knew local judges heard both civil and criminal cases, but didn't they have more than one judge in this county?

His Honor's eyes twinkled a bit when he saw me, but he merely waited for the bailiff to announce that the hearing for Deaver v. BDC, Inc. was now in session. Then Judge Bertels leaned forward. "Let's talk about these requests. Frankly, I don't see that you have a leg to stand on, Ms. Greenberg, but I take privilege and work product claims seriously, so I let you come down to make your case. Based on your filed objections alone, I'd deny them and let the plaintiff have their discovery."

Sarah stood up. "Your Honor, we clearly have valid objections based both on attorney work product and on the more stringent protections of client confidentiality."

He leaned back in his chair. "How do you see that?"

"We produce those advertisements in anticipation of litigation, as required by the work product doctrine, Your Honor. It is possible that discussion of our targeted client base may be included in the materials on file at Orange Grove Productions, as their attorney will tell you."

One of the junior-looking lawyers popped up, eyes nearly bugging out. The judge waved an arm. "Sit down, Mr. Owens. Ms. Greenberg is claiming the privilege. We'll let her argue the motion."

"Thank you, Your Honor." The man sank bonelessly back down into his seat. Corporate lawyer types hated showing up in court. I used to make fun of them, with the usual trial lawyer arrogance. After my one and only foray into criminal law, I felt a wave of sympathy for the man.

The judge looked at me. "Counselor, your thoughts?"

I stood up. This was a lot less formal than federal court. I wasn't yet sure if I liked it or not. "Thank you, Your Honor. December Vaughn for Plaintiff Charles Deaver."

The judge did a "go ahead," twirling motion with his hand. "Yes, dementia hasn't set in yet, Ms. Vaughn. I can remember your name. Your response to Ms. Greenberg?"

"Thank you, Your Honor. As I set forth in my responses, neither Greenberg and Smithies nor their clients have absolutely any expectation of privacy related to the ad itself, or its filming. If there were any client relationship involved, it would have only been formed after the ad was filmed, after the ad aired on public television, and after the client called the law firm in response to the ad."

I took a breath and looked the judge right in the eye, on firm ground this time. "There is not the slightest hint of work product in the filming of a television commercial, Your Honor. All those commercials do is attempt to solicit clients. Therefore, we respectfully request that you grant our non-party production requests directed to Orange Grove Production."

Judge Bertels nodded and made a note on the papers in front of him. "Thank you, Ms. Vaughn. I've heard enough. Orange Grove Production is hereby ordered to respond in full to the non-party production requests filed by the plaintiff in the case of Deaver v. BDC."

He looked at Sarah. "Frankly, Ms. Greenberg, I'm surprised you wasted my time with this. I expect more of you."

She looked down at her table and mumbled something that may have been an apology. Then the bailiff called the next hearing, and I stuffed my files back in my briefcase and headed for the back of the courtroom. I had no desire to hear anything she had to say; I'd deal directly with the production company now.

As I walked down the stairs, I could feel the shark smile was back on my face. This time, I deserved it. I couldn't wait to call Max. I dug in my purse for my phone, then remembered putting it in my jacket pocket. I stuck my hand in my pocket, and it went straight through. A rip in the pocket lining must have opened up somewhere along the way. Since I would have heard my metal-cased phone hitting the tiled floor of the hallway, my bet was that it had happened in the carpeted courtroom.

I sighed and headed back upstairs, hoping that Sarah was gone already. I hated to ruin my triumphant exit with slinking back in search of my phone.

As I walked past the tiny counsel room outside the courtroom, where lawyers can meet privately with their clients prior to hearings, I caught sight of the back of Sarah's head through the small glass pane on the door. I stopped and snuck another look and saw the front of a very unexpected head.

Addison Langley was meeting with Sarah Greenberg after my hearing. Sarah moved, and I jumped out of the way, fast, and plastered myself against the wall in the slight alcove formed between the counsel room and the courtroom door. The door opened, and they walked out, but they never even looked my way, luckily.

They stopped for a moment by the door, speaking in hushed voices. Langley had Greenberg's arm in what looked like a death grip. "Look, Sarah, this was your responsibility, and you screwed it up. This could be really bad for us."

She yanked her arm away from him. "Shut up, Addison. You haven't been much help on this. You're all about telling me to make sure the message gets across to one stupid Ohio lawyer, but you're not very helpful on the practical side."

They looked down the hall, but still didn't look back toward the courtroom. Sarah spoke up again, barely above a whisper. "Too bad that loaning a judge a yacht for a weekend won't buy you justice in Claymore County like it will in some other places. Bertels turned my 'friendly offer' of the boat down flat."

Langley grabbed her arm again. "You better fix it. Now."

She said nothing, just jerked her arm away and took off down the hall, and then he hurried off in the other direction. I turned and walked back into the courtroom to retrieve my cell phone, mind reeling at what sure as heck sounded like a confession.

Alligator pee or no alligator pee, this stupid lawyer from Ohio was going to take some bad guys down. Now all I needed was proof.