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IT’S A HIKE TO the courthouse, just under eighty miles. I once mentioned to Jimmy that a trip across Long Island should be measured not in miles, but dog years.

“Don’t ever say that in front of Rip,” Jimmy said, “on account of how far he is past his sell-by date.”

Rip is my dog. I really did think he was a goner when I took him in as a stray and named him “R.I.P.” Now, because of tender loving care from the man of my dreams—Dr. Ben Kalinsky, who happens to be the top veterinarian on the South Fork—Rip shows signs of outliving us all.

It’s actually kind of funny. Eight months after being told I had a year to live, starting another round of chemo so soon before the start of my next trial, gallows humor has pretty much become my default position.

I promised Norma Banks I would meet her at the Supreme Court building, Nassau County, at eleven o’clock, traffic on the Long Island Expressway and Northern State permitting.

She’s taking the Long Island Rail Road from New York Penn Station.

Her apartment in the West Village is not far from mine, though when she moved in Nixon was president. Or maybe FDR.

The SiriusXM channel devoted to Billy Joel, a good Long Island boy, is now back by popular demand, but I switch to Doctor Radio, where I keep hoping to hear news of a cure for my cancer, neck and head.

The dream of scooping my oncologist isn’t feeling so realistic today, so I tune out the doctors and go back to rock ’n’ roll.

As shitty as I feel, I’m ready to put this last round of chemo in the rearview mirror, as if I were recovering from a bad breakup, or a midlife crisis.

I need my focus to be squarely on the upcoming trial.

Judge Michael Horton—I keep wanting to call him Jordan, because he reminds me of Michael Jordan, and is almost as tall, having been a shooting guard in college himself—knows what I’m dealing with, no reason to keep it a secret from him.

He hasn’t told the media that my “situation” was another factor in his decision to delay the trial.

And District Attorney Katherine Welsh didn’t contest the continuance, to her credit.

I’m more than happy to accept their help on this particular matter.

Just not their sympathy, theirs or anybody else’s.

It’s worth mentioning that Katherine, who’s both Harvard undergrad and Law, is younger than I am, taller, prettier, and, as far as I know, healthy as a horse.

That bitch.

Only now jury selection is staring me in the face, even as I’m pulling out of a brutal round of chemo—something else I think should be measured in dog years, mostly because it makes me sick as one.

Am I going to be ready to start picking a jury?

Armed and ready.

I’m getting off the Northern State and onto the Meadowbrook when I do decide to tune in to Doctor Radio. Somehow, though, I hit the wrong button and land on a talk show.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

Before I can switch away from it, I hear the voice of someone who’s clearly the host saying, “Rob Jacobson, can that really be you on our caller line?”

Please don’t be him.

But the next voice I hear does belong to my client.

Shit shit shit. On a stick.

“The man, the legend,” Jacobson says. “Accept no substitutes, Paul.”

“Thanks for reaching out,” the host says. “So what’s on your mind today?”

“Obviously nothing is on his freaking mind,” I say out loud in the car.

Then I’m pounding my left hand on the horn, causing the car next to me to swerve and nearly sideswipe me.

“Well,” Jacobson says, “we could talk about the homeless crisis in New York City, or if this is finally the year for the Knicks, but I thought you might want to talk about my upcoming trial.”

Behind the wheel, I am shaking my head and still talking to myself.

“I know you can’t hear me, Rob,” I say. “But you really are a raging fucking asshole.”

For the next ten minutes, ten minutes that seem to last longer than both my marriages combined, my client proceeds to do something I specifically ordered him not to do:

Talk about the trial.

Not to the media, not to the members of his family still speaking to him, not to any friends he might have left, not to any of his many girls on the side.

Not even to the DoorDash guy bringing him his food in the house he’s been renting a couple of miles from mine in Amagansett, while he’s under house arrest.

Yet here he is, talking to Paul, whoever the hell Paul is.

Proclaiming his innocence. Telling the listening audience that there’s even less of a case against him this time than there was the last time, when in fact the opposite is true. Even saying “Bring it on” when he references Katherine Welsh, the woman who is trying to put him away for life.

“I am so anxious to get my day in court,” he says, “I wish it were today.”

He pauses, then adds, “What can I tell you, Paul? The witch hunt against me continues. If I didn’t know any better, I’d start to think I was a politician.”

Somehow my client saves the best for last, after reminding the host that he’s once again being defended by the great Jane Smith, whom he calls “The Hamptons Lawyer” and describes as the “undefeated heavyweight champion of the world.”

“And let me make it clear that I’m not really talking about her weight,” he says. I hear him chuckle. But then he’s always cracking himself up, even when under indictment. “If you happen to be listening, Janie,” he says. “Love you, babe.”

Babe.

I’m banging on the horn again then. This time the driver of the car next to me, a guy, turns and gives me the finger.

I give it right back.

He’ll never know it isn’t directed at him, or that when I scream out “Asshole!” this time, that isn’t directed at him, either.

I drive faster.