The jury filed back into the courtroom, their faces expressionless. Nothing visible there. No clues. Jack felt himself tensing. It had been a tough trial. The defense attorney, one Jack had never seen before, had been very good. She had unerringly found most of the weaknesses in the prosecution's case. Jack was glad he had built the case as well as he did. It had been a strong case to begin with, but had become weak and largely circumstantial after the defendant's confession and DNA had been thrown out due to bungling by the detectives at the two-seven. Wasn't it about time for Lennie Briscoe to retire? He had, what, over thirty five years on the job? "How many years do I have?" Jack asked himself, "Is it time for me?" Jack's face was impassive, but he was nervous.

The jury sat down in the box, except for the forewoman, who remained standing. Jack looked searchingly at her face, seeking some clue about the jury's decision, but found none. She handed the record of the verdict to the bailiff and sat down.

Jack's gaze followed the bailiff as she carried the paper to the judge. The judge glanced briefly at the verdict then handed it back to the bailiff who took it back to the forewoman. The judge had no discernable reaction to what she had read. This was Jack's first case before this judge. In fact it was the first time he had ever seen her. She had temporarily transferred to Manhattan from Staten Island to help out with a heavier than usual caseload. Jack did know a little bit about her, though. He wasn't entirely in the dark. He had picked up some scuttlebutt around the courthouse about her. Rumor had it that she sometimes went entirely nude under the judicial robes, except for shoes. He wondered how such a rumor had gotten started, and how often she went nude, and whether or not she was nude now, and how could one prove a judge's current state of nudity without being adjudged in contempt of court. He also wondered what she looked like in the nude (without the robe, of course.)

"Has the jury reached a verdict on all counts of the indictment?"

The forewoman looked straight at the judge and answered, "We have, your honor,"

The judge turned her attention to the defendant and his attorney. "Will the defendant please rise?" she said. The defendant and his attorney stood up.

The judge looked back to the jury forewoman. She asked, "On the first count of the indictment, murder in the first degree, how does the jury find?"

Jack's tension continued to mount. He was again looking at the jury forewoman. She would be 38 next month. Jack knew this from the juror questionnaire she had filled out. He also knew she was single. She was of slightly greater than average height. She was wearing a sweater, which was light pink and very tight, that showed her curves in a most flattering way. She had worn her hair up throughout the trial; today, it hung loose in a wavy, dark golden cloud that softly framed her face. Her lips were slightly parted.

She cleared her throat. "We the jury find the defendant guilty," she said in a clear sweet voice.

Jack sighed and began to relax. That was the tough count. The death penalty was still on the table. He heard a soft murmuring behind him. The judge sharply rapped her gavel.

"On the second count of the indictment, rape in the first degree, how does the jury find?"

Jack looked at the defense table. The defendant's hands were along his sides, clenched into fists. He also had been staring intently at the jury forewoman, like he was memorizing her appearance, his dark eyes unblinking and seemingly lidless, like a reptile's. Jack's gaze moved to the defense attorney, who was about a foot shorter than the hulking defendant. She had dark, shoulder-length hair and was quite pretty. Jack thought that he'd have to carefully plan a chance, after hours encounter with her at some future date.

"We find the defendant guilty."

Jack continued to relax. He looked at the court reporter. She was quite young, perhaps still a college student or a recent graduate. She was wearing a floral print blouse which was made of some semi-sheer fabric, and a short, pastel light blue skirt which barely made it to mid thigh. Her long legs looked like they were encased in real silk. Jack had many fond memories of what that felt like.

This was turning into a really good day.

One more count to go. He watched the judge, but suddenly didn't hear what she was saying. A warm, feminine hand had taken hold of his and was squeezing it slightly. He squeezed back. The hold lingered, invitingly. What the hell was Serena thinking? He surreptitiously looked around the courtroom but no one seemed to be looking back. He looked at the hand holding his. Her thumb was slowly massaging the palm of his hand, producing a nice tingle. Warmth flowed into him and he smiled slightly. He glanced to his right, but it wasn't Serena whose hand he was holding. It was...

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Jack felt a jolt along his spine so intense it seemed physical. His eyes slivered open with difficulty, as if someone had recently glued them shut. The warm feeling fled. Where was the courtroom? He was alone in a strange dark place...


BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

...which slowly resolved into his bedroom in the early morning twilight. Damn! That had been a really good dream. Jack coughed twice and felt his gorge beginning to rise. Judging from the taste in his mouth, it had risen once or twice before during the night.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

He sat up somewhat unsteadily and swung his feet to the floor. The clock-radio was across the room, on the dresser. He actually had to get out of bed to shut it off. He had started doing this many years ago after a disastrous morning when he had overslept and was late to court. Both the judge and the DA had found many unpleasant and financially painful things to say to him about that. He rose to his feet, stepped over to the dresser...

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

...and turned off the alarm with a decisive snap. He continued into the bathroom to get ready for another day. As he stood in front of the toilet, he slowly became aware of intense itching in his groin. Damn! It was still there. He scratched at the worst area, which did not significantly alleviate the itching. "Just great!" he said aloud, then thought, "Just what I need on a hot, August day!" He scratched again. The antifungal cream he had tried last night clearly had not worked. He hurled the half empty tube into the trash basket where it nestled along side the half empty tube of antipruritic cream and the half empty tube of antiseptic cream with cortisone. This was clearly the worst case of jock itch he had ever had. It was pure misery.

"Balls!" he said, as he stepped into the shower. He had an impression that there was a quality about the maddening itch that reminded him of something he should know, but that impression faded immediately. The itch did not. He would have to pick up something else on the way home tonight. What? He wondered. He was running out of ideas. He would ask the pharmacist, who would hopefully be male.