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AS LOUSY AS I feel most mornings, I arrive in Mineola to an important reminder that there is still a ritual of which I never tire:

The walk I am taking toward the courthouse; my dear friends in the media waiting for me outside; the few minutes of back-and-forth I will spend with them; then through the doors and through the metal detectors before eventually making my way into the courtroom for one more murder trial—maybe my last—the kind that Jimmy Cunniff calls boxing without blood.

“Oh, there’s blood, all right,” I tell him.

“Not yours,” he says.

I do keep things short with the media today, knowing that once the trial has started, I’ll be out here, before and after court, spinning like I’m one of those pixie figure skaters in the Olympics.

“Jane,” says a reporter I recognize from CNN, “don’t you ever get tired of defending this guy?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of watching me defend this guy?” I shoot back.

“Yes!” she shouts.

“If you’re going to cover this thing,” I say, “do what I do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Fake it till you make it.”

It gets a decent laugh. But I’m not wasting my A material on opening day.

“Jane,” Lisa Rubin of MSNBC says, “all joking aside, you have to admit that the evidence against your client seems pretty overwhelming.”

“Wait a second, Rubin,” I say. “Are you and the district attorney thinking about opening a bar together?”

“Is that an answer?”

“Here’s my answer: The evidence against Rob Jacobson this time around is actually under whelming. The facts of this case, the ones that will bring Rob another acquittal, are more stubborn than I am.”

Then I say, “Okay, gotta go to work.”

They’re still shouting questions as I head inside. I’m aware that Rob Jacobson is waiting for me in a conference room. So are Thomas McGoey and Norma Banks, who’s going to be with me every day of this trial, closely studying the jury when I’m not.

But before I head for the conference room, I make a pit stop in the nearest ladies’ room, one I discover is blessedly empty. I go to a stall, close the door, sit down, grab the can of Red Bull in my bag, and drink it down as if I won’t make it across the desert unless I do.

I know that Red Bull is probably about as good for my perpetually sensitive stomach as battery acid. But I need a boost from the sugar, and an even bigger boost from what is essentially a caffeine bomb.

When I come out of the stall I toss the can in the garbage, then splash just enough cold water on my cheeks to refresh me without ruining my makeup.

Then I do what I always do right before the main event is about to begin.

I lightly slap both cheeks and say, “Showtime.”

But today I hesitate, staring at the woman staring back at me. It’s as if I’m looking into the eyes of my mother.