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NORMA BANKS AND I are standing outside the courthouse in Mineola, the first wave of juror interviews for Katherine Welsh and I set to begin in less than half an hour in front of Judge Michael Horton, who, from what I’ve seen so far, seems to think he might be the son of God.

Norma has dressed up for the occasion, or at least her personal version of dressing up, in a pretty blue maxi dress and blue sneakers almost the same pale shade as the dress.

She may have had her hair done, there seem to be a few more curls today, but I can’t be certain of that and am afraid to ask.

She has lit a new cigarette off the one she’d just finished.

“You’re sucking on those things like you think the judge is going to send you to the chair,” I say.

“The world was a better place when smoking indoors wasn’t treated like a crime against humanity,” she says.

“Yes,” I tell her, “those certainly were the days.”

She narrows her eyes. “You sure you’re ready for this?” she asks. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

I mention to her that I’ve been getting a lot of that lately, and why would anyone possibly take a comment like that the wrong way?

“It’s like the universe is trying to tell me I’m sick or something,” I say.

“For the last time, kiddo,” she says, “you do not have to do this.”

“Actually, I do.”

“It’s not worth it,” she says, “and your client is certainly not worth it.”

“I know that,” I say. “But I finish what I start.”

“Even if it kills you?” Norma drops her cigarette and stubs it out on the sidewalk.

I smile at her. “Is that the entire pep talk? Or is there more?”

She smiles back at me and gives me a playful shrug in the direction of the front doors.

“Let’s get this party started,” she says.

As soon as I sit down, a serious case of DA envy once again sweeps over me.

It’s as if Katherine Welsh is the one seated at the cool kids’ table.

She is dressed in a to-die-for navy suit that not only is made for her but really looks as if someone did make it for her.

Somehow she seems to have even more long auburn hair than usual, is wearing heels that make her nearly six feet tall.

As far as I can see, she is in absolutely no danger whatsoever of anybody suggesting that she looks like shit today.

Norma Banks sees the way I’m looking at my opponent and gives me a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Just remember something,” she says quietly, nodding in the direction of Katherine Welsh. “Somewhere somebody’s tired of her.”

Welsh puts down her briefcase next to her chair and walks over to our table. She’s smiling, as if she’s not just ready for her close-up, she was born for it.

I stand and shake her outstretched hand, hoping she doesn’t notice me rising up on my toes as I do.

“So,” Welsh says, “we’re really gonna do this.”

“There’s still time to switch sides,” I say. “I frankly like yours better.”

She leans closer to me. “Is it true that Thomas McGoey is going to be your second chair?”

“Word travels fast.”

“You know how it works with social media,” she says. “Gossip is halfway around the world before I even get my new shoes on.”

I look down at her shoes when she says that, I can’t help myself.

“Oh, shit,” I say. “Those are Manolos, aren’t they?”

“Guilty,” Katherine Welsh says, then says in a throaty voice, “God, how I love that word.”

Then she quickly says, “How are you feeling, Jane? Really.”

I make myself taller again and say, “Just barely strong enough to kick your ass.”

As if I’ve suddenly confirmed to her what she’s probably thought about me all along, Katherine Welsh shakes her head.

“Jane Effing Smith,” she says.

“For the defense.”