Edge

sex abuse scandal, that coalition would fall apart and the Republican’s dream justice doesn’t get confirmed. I’m pretty sure some people from the PAC supporting Stevenson and somebody from Alberts’s lobbying firm were involved.”
    A wolf’s gleam in Westerfield’s eye. “That’s good.”
    I said, “Look at the anger out there, look at the partisanship. People seem willing to do whatever they need to for their side to win.”
    Too much screaming in Congress. Too much screaming everywhere.
    Westerfield looked toward Teasley, who wrote furiously in her notebook, and then he repeated, “That’s good, Corte. Good . . .”
    But he didn’t exactly mean good. Something more was coming.
    “Only . . .” He rocked back on his skinny butt and gazed at the ceiling momentarily. Regret—real or faux—filled his face. “How’d you like to retire in a blaze of glory?”
    “Retire?” Aaron Ellis asked.
    “See, you kind of played us.”
    The U.S. attorney’s office, I assumed he meant.
    “What’re you saying, Jason?” Ellis asked.
    “That incident about sending the Kesslers to the slammer? It was pretty awkward.”
    There’ll be some fallout. You outright lied to me. . . .
    I supposed that the attorney general himself had been there or some other higher-up in Justice. Perhaps hoping to interview Ryan Kessler, the hero cop. There’d been some damage to Westerfield’s career.
    “I’m thinking your resignation would be in order. Letter of apology. Let the powers that be know you intentionally pulled the wool over our eyes.”
    Clichés again. Did judges ever reprimand him in court for his clunky figures of speech?
    Westerfield continued, “I’ll make sure you get full benefits, of course. But a slip-slide into a private security company might be a good idea. Hey, you’ll double your salary. I can even set you up with some nice prospects.”
    “Jason,” Ellis began.
    “I’m sorry. I really am,” Westerfield said. Again a dark face, a troubled face. “But if that doesn’t happen . . . hate to say it, but there is some issue I heard tell about: surveillance warrants.”
    I felt several pairs of eyes slide toward me.
    So, Westerfield did know about them, whichmeant he had an edge on me. A pretty damn good one.
    The prosecutor said, “How ’bout we shake on it? Go our separate ways? Aren’t you tired of getting shot at, Corte?”
    The Nash bargaining game, named after the famous mathematician John Nash, is a favorite among game theorists and one of my favorites too. It works this way: There are two players who each want a portion of something that can be divided. Say, two bosses who need to share an administrative assistant, who can work only forty hours a week total. Each player writes down on a slip of paper how many hours he wants the assistant to work for him, without knowing what the other is asking for. If the total amount equals forty hours or less, each gets the assistant for the time he’s asked. If the total exceeds forty hours, neither gets the assistant at all.
    I was now, apparently, the subject of the bargaining game being played between Ellis and Westerfield.
    But game theory only works when the rules are clearly set out ahead of time. In the Nash bargaining game here, neither of the players was aware of another rule presently at work: that what they were bargaining over—me—might be a player in the game too.
    As Westerfield and Ellis were proposing some face-saving compromise—I wasn’t paying attention—I interrupted. “Jason?”
    He paused and looked at me.
    I said, “I’m not leaving. I’m not writing any letters of resignation. You’re going to drop the matter.”
    Both my boss and Westerfield blinked. The prosecutor glanced at his equally startled assistant, who was fondling her pearls.
    A cool smile parted Westerfield’s tiny lips. “Now, you’re not . . .”
    He didn’t want to say “threatening me, are you?” But that was where his ominous sentence flared for a landing.
    Ellis said, “Corte, it’s okay. We can work out something. There’s room for compromise here.”
    I rose and walked to the door, closed it.
    Westerfield looked mystified. Ellis wanted to be elsewhere. DuBois gave what passed for a smile. My kind of smile. “Go ahead,” I said to her and sat back. I teach my protégées about dealing with lifters and hitters and primaries. I also teach them about dealing with our compatriots.
    She turned to Westerfield and said