The Baxter Trust

that now. I’ve got to get off that shit, you know?”
    Dutton knew. He looked as if he’d been slapped. As if all his powers had suddenly been stripped away.
    Steve watched with satisfaction. “Well,” he said. “I’m sure you kids have a lot to talk over, so I’ll be pushing off.”
    He got up and walked to the door. He turned back in the doorway. Sheila was looking after him and their eyes met. Just for a moment he thought he caught a wistful look. He smiled and nodded, and she smiled back.
    Steve went out the front door of Sheila Benton’s building and headed for Broadway, to catch the subway home. He felt surprisingly good. All right, so he didn’t have a law practice. But he’d had a case. A real case. And he’d gotten his client off. So what if nobody knew it? He knew it. And it felt damn good.
    He walked by a newsstand. The New York Post had gotten out an extra. “B AXTER S HOT D EAD !—B ENTON F REED !” ran the headline. A smaller-print headline underneath ran: “D.A. C RACKS G REELY C ASE !” Underneath were a glamour shot of Sheila Benton, and a stock head-shot of Maxwell Baxter. An inset photo showed a grinning Harry Dirkson and Lieutenant Farron issuing a joint statement to the press.
    Steve didn’t buy the paper. He just smiled and walked off down the street toward the subway.