Dirty Blonde [antikvár]

PROLOGUE GATE FANTE WAS THE GUEST OF HONOR AT this celebration, which was drawing to a liquefied close. She raised a final snifter of cognac, joining the judges toasting her appointment to the district court. Tomorrow would be a slow day on the bench. The wheels of justice weren't lubricated by Remy Martin. "To Judge Gate Fante, our new colleague!" Chief Judge Sherman shouted, and the judges clinked glasses with a costly chime. Wrinkled cheeks draped their tipsy smiles, and their bifocals reflected the flickering candlelight. Their average age was sixty-two, and an appointment to the federal bench was for life. At thirty-nine, Gate felt like she was joining the world's most exclusive retirement village. "Speech, speech!" the judges called out, their encouragement echoing in the private room. Golden light glowed from brass sconces, and coffee cooled next to scalloped half-moons of creme brulée and bread pudding veined with cinnamon. "Speech, Judge Fante!" m ( iv r/ii ( ' . I : I , ¦ ¦ if'- . t >