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WHILE I WAIT TO hear from Danny Esposito about the gun, I spend Saturday morning at home, once again going over my opening statement, doing what I always do, writing and then rewriting the first draft longhand.

So it’s me and my legal pad and my cursive Catholic school penmanship, the floor around my desk filling with crumpled-up yellow paper as I try to get it down right, occasionally stopping to read out loud before crumpling up more paper.

I don’t even think about writing the ending yet—ending to a beginning—because I know there’s no point until I find out from Danny what happened when he test-fired the gun the girl found at Rob Jacobson’s town house, and then ran the ballistics on it.

At the bar last night, Jimmy told me that he only felt good about having done some real cop work in the city, even though the gun had basically fallen into his lap, along with a lot of potential problems for us.

“Real cop work as opposed to what?” I asked.

“Aiding and abetting.”

“You still feel as if that’s what we’re doing with our client?”

“You said it, not me,” Jimmy replied before walking me out to my car.

Aiding and abetting.

Is that the way I might be going out?

Thomas McGoey shows up at noon for our planned trial prep, having picked up sandwiches for us at Goldberg’s on his way from his place in Quogue.

My lunch order is a corned beef Reuben, even knowing my stomach will probably pay a heavy price for that later.

McGoey is having an Italian sub that when he takes it out of the bag looks to be as long as his arm.

“A hero from a place called Goldberg’s?” I ask. “Isn’t that some kind of mixed message?”

“I pride myself on embracing all cultures and ethnicities.”

“Italian especially, from your client list.”

He grins. “Always remember something,” he says. “It’s not personal, Jane. Just business.”

“Please don’t do The Godfather,” I say, “I’m begging you.”

“Are you joking? With my aforementioned client list, those movies are like finishing school.”

We eat and talk about the gun, McGoey trying to convince me that we actually might be able to use it to our advantage if it does turn out to be the one that fired the bullets found at the murder scene.

“But if it does belong to Rob and he did plant it at his own house, I mean, what the fuck?” McGoey says.

“Maybe at this point he’s convinced himself that he really is bullet proof. ”

It’s odd seeing McGoey not wearing what I think of as his shark suit.

White polo shirt today, slightly wrinkled, jeans faded to nearly the color of the shirt, beat-up topsiders, no socks.

By now he’s devoured his sub. I’ve eaten about half of my sandwich, giving the rest of the pastrami to Rip, who, when it comes to food, absolutely does embrace all cultures and ethnicities.

But sitting across from McGoey at the kitchen table, it occurs to me how comfortable I am talking lawyer with him, even with what Jimmy calls his goombah résumé.

“I assume you still plan to come in hot on Hank Carson’s gambling,” he says.

“Hank will be just one of the dead guys I plan to put on trial.”

“Who’s the other?”

“Bobby Salvatore.”

McGoey nods. “Nothing like prosecuting those no longer with us to defend themselves.”

“While keeping in mind that Carson is the victim, and it is going to be our theory that it was his gambling that got his wife and daughter killed.”

We move out to the back porch after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen. When we’re outside, McGoey begins throwing one of Rip’s disgusting tennis balls for him to fetch. Clearly a dog guy.

“You know the drill,” I say. “Do whatever it takes.”

“And then you really get serious after that.”

I smile now. “I have a special practice these days,” I say. “I only handle one client.”

“Wait, you get to do The Godfather and I don’t?”

“You’re still only second chair.”

We sit there for a while as Rip keeps chasing the ball.

“Your dog likes me,” McGoey says.

“He likes you because your arm hasn’t fallen off yet.”

McGoey turns to face me. “How about you? Do you like me?”

“TBD,” I say. “At least for as long as I’m still around.”

“You’re too hard to kill,” he says.

“Something else that’s TBD.”

We go over our witness list.

“I see Sonny Blum isn’t on here.”

“Not yet.”

“But how can you call him if you can’t find him?”

“I’ve got Jimmy Cunniff looking for him, is how.”

“Still not going to be easy,” he says, “not even for Jimmy.”

“My father always told me that the easy jobs don’t pay very well.”

“So you’re sure you can serve him?”

“Yes, she lied,” I tell Thomas McGoey.

“Music to my ears.”

“I’ve only spoken to Jimmy about this,” I say.

“But the real reason I want to get old Sonny on the stand is because he’s the one I really plan to put on trial for the murder of the Carson family.

Bobby Salvatore worked for him. Hank Carson was in the hole to him.

And, on a slightly more personal note, it’s his goons who have tried to kill me on more than one occasion. ”

I smile at him again. “So at the very least, I owe him a good beating.”

“You know how dangerous he is.”

“Almost as dangerous as I am,” I say.

McGoey is on his way back to Quogue, and I tell myself I’m going to work on the opening statement for a couple more hours.

But I’m suddenly so tired that I turn on a baseball game from a past postseason that does include my Mets, lie down on the couch, and promptly fall asleep. The ball game ends up watching me.

I am awakened by my phone.

When I grab it off the coffee table I see ESPOSITO on the screen.

“I got the results,” he says.

“Talk to me.”

“You want the good news first, or the bad news?”

“Surprise me.”

“Actually,” Danny Esposito says, “there is no good news.”