Work in the office dragged on into the evening, and the endless lines of typing were already wildly confusing to my eyes.

"Mother of God! Killed the whole day again!" - Clutching her favorite beige mug with three fingers, Beckett absent-mindedly shuffled the rest of her coffee and stared out the window. Just like her, businesslike and measured, her beloved city was in no hurry to rest. Glittering with myriad neon lights, honking klaxons and police sirens, it clearly hinted at a night out. And Beckett, more than anyone, understood the gist of things, but family values are more important to her than anything else. And even if she sat at work day in and day out to the raucous music of a sidewalk café, it was only because she wasn't going to change her business tradition. And Joanna's thoughts involuntarily shifted to her family. Had Jim successfully resolved the client conflict? How was Kate doing, I wondered? While she was happy with her excellent grades, happy to do the housework, smiling and joking about her progress in driving school, her daughter was still hiding something from her, a mother's heart was not deceived by that. True, Kate was a sensible person, and that was at least a little comforting. Probably when the time came, she would tell everything herself, and she and Jim, out of simple worldly wisdom, would not press her.

"I wonder what we're having for dinner tonight? Trout and artichokes from Jim or spicy ham and tomato pizza from Kate? Whatever it is, but my current supply is running low!" - After finishing her cool, sweetish coffee, Joanna glanced at her watch. No, her conscience might well be asleep, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to gently massage her face and neck. It would give her just the right amount of tone for the return trip.

The chair back, worn from time, but eerily comfortable, creaked miserably under even her modest weight, and Joanna assumed the "tired but contented lawyer" pose. Gently she put her long, slender fingers to her face and swept them vigorously and vigorously one side and the other a few times in a circular motion. Then it was the turn of her neck. The unchanging posture made her muscles feel like stone, but with each faithful motion the numbness was slowly released. Now it was time to set the table in order and let the boys go. Joanna picked up the briefcase against the foot of the desk and was about to slip a folder into it when there was a loud and unceremonious knock on the office door.

- Come in," Beckett said politely, glancing over her shoulder with interest. The hinges creaked, and in the doorway a long, unkempt boy with a weeping, thin face appeared. The blue-and-yellow uniform of the courier service hung on him like a stick, and the large, out-of-size branded cap was held only by his protruding ears. Under his arm the courier held something dazzlingly shiny, and, sniffing his nose now and then, he gave a soft but frequent croak.

- Which of you would be Joanna Beckett? - he hurriedly muttered, without saying hello, and the question was addressed at once to both women: Beckett herself and her assistant Molly Street. - You have an urgent delivery!

- Yes? Actually, Joanna Beckett is me," she raised an eyebrow in bewilderment, "but I don't remember any of my orders hanging around!

- I don't know about you, but even after a mega-pizza, I dream of a lemon cheesecake or at least a portion of chicken wings," Molly's chubby-faced chuckle smacked her carmine lips dreamily, glancing with unconcealed regret at the crumpled package, whose corner was sticking traitorously out of the trash can. - Ma'am! You must have forgotten all about your lunch!

- Is there anything ticking? - Molly's boyfriend Patrick, who had been patiently sniffing in her friend's ear, jumped up to the delivery man, and before he knew it put his ear to the package. He turned around at once.

- It seems to be quiet! So, shall we take it? - His eyes twinkled with such an air of mystery that Joanna unclenched her eyelashes and involuntarily lifted her chin in a gesture of genuine interest.

- Where do I sign? - Beckett reached for a pen, but the courier, having found himself at her desk, unceremoniously slapped the parcel right under her nose, and held out his own.

- There! - on one of the minutes lay a crumpled receipt, on which Beckett saw her own, clumsily scrawled name.

- Perhaps the good fairy had sent a token of favor," Joanna joked tiredly, "or Santa Claus had remembered his promise of thirty years ago.

The boy only hummed in response, glancing sideways at Patrick, who was standing beside him. He was rubbing the lapel of his sweater with impatience, and the courier, clutching his cap in his fist, brushed his greasy locks of hair from forehead to nape of neck several times. He picked his nose, smearing kozuli under the lapel of his jacket, and after a neat handwriting, Beckett instantly vanished. All that was left of the messenger was the smell of rancid tobacco, low-grade stinky cologne, and some other smelly filth, but, however, the Beckett family had always had a sense of tact. The sharp edge of the office knife cut through a band of colorless duct tape, and under the ornate foil Joanna saw a laminated tin box of cookies and a plain envelope without a stamp.

- Uh, may I? - stroking his sunken, perpetually hungry belly, Patrick had already chewed his lips with impatience. - While I open the jar, you place your bets.

- One in ten that it will be a unique and unforgettable surprise! - Molly sang languidly, and as everyone turned to her in surprise, she raised her narrow, lancet eyebrows in surprise: "Why? Did I say something wrong? It's always like that in detective novels!

- Oh, that Miss Hindsight! - Patrick laughed and made an unimaginative face that meant, "It's all clear to me!" While Beckett carefully trimmed the edge of the envelope, he scraped the foil with his fingernails, but realizing he'd tried in vain, he grabbed the same knife. Where the tape was the least loose, he pinched it with the tip, and it gave way with a dry crack. In no time at all, Patrick peeled off the wrapping and, with an enigmatic smile, hooked the edge of the lid with his fingernail.

- One in twenty, what would it be..." He suddenly tossed the box away from him, right onto the table. From beneath the lid, the stale, disgusting, unbearable fizzy smell was so persistent and unbearable that Patrick's hands rose convulsively to his face. Covering his mouth and nose, he made wretched, burping noises in his palms for some time, but he didn't hold back and threw up right on Beckett's briefcase. The first vomit was followed by a second, and the unhappy young man, with his eyes watering and his nose puffing, coughed out in an unnaturally gruff voice:

- Oh... the devil! What kind of idiotic joke is this?

He could have said nothing, though, for a cheerful breeze dragged the ghastly stench briskly through the room.

- Jesus, what is that? Will somebody get rid of that crap? - Beckett never had time to open the envelope fully, but quickly realized the futility of her message. Patrick, green to the core, had fallen to his knees beside her, his face crossed in front of him, and was hiccupping loudly and incessantly. Molly, fleeing the stench with scraps of paper towel stuffed in her nostrils, with painful squirming on her face, immediately rushed to Patrick's aid.

- Holy crap, help yourself! - Without any hope of helpers, Joanna pulled out a pair of waxed paper bags, in which she sometimes packed old cases, from the bottom drawer of her desk. Trying not to breathe through her nose, she somehow slipped the lid on the ill-fated box, in which she noticed a half-decayed fish carcass, wrapped it in the bags, and took off. It was a good thing the neighboring offices were already empty, and no one had come across me on the way.

Beckett descended the stairs to the technical floor almost at a run, and when the nauseating "present" disappeared into the "fragrant" womb of the garbage chute, she sighed with undisguised relief. Keeping her hands out of the way, she made her way to the toilet. Generously squeezing liquid soap into her palms, she rubbed her brushes against each other until red, sniffing them periodically and diligently, and she still smelled that nasty smell. When Beckett finally returned to the office, there had already been some changes. The desk and briefcase had been thoroughly wiped clean, and poor Patrick, having moved to the sofa in the corner, was sprawled there with a wet handkerchief on his forehead. Every single window was open, and Molly, busy circling around the office, was waving a thick magazine with dexterity. The papers were still sticking out of her nose, though she was breathing more easily.

- God, who would want to mess with us like that? - Patrick groaned, looking at his boss in hysterics. - Could this letter explain anything?

Sitting on the edge of the table, Beckett opened the note. It was nothing special, just plain writing paper with newspaper clippings glued on at random:

"Blind, stupid chicken! And you will never escape the same fate!"

There was no signature, of course.

- Of course. Definitely a written dissatisfaction from the detractors," Joanna glanced sadly at the boys and shook her head understandingly. Patrick had already straightened up, his eyes staring into the void, and Molly came over to him. She wiped traces of vomit on his lips and chin with a paper towel, then kissed him gently on the cheek and rested her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck.

- Can we go now? - Molly asked politely, while her lover blinked his eyes stupidly and remained silent. Probably couldn't get over the shock.

- See you tomorrow," Beckett said somberly, and tossed the crumpled note into the trash. She looked at the boys, rolled her chair back a little, and, hands clasped on top of her head, sank back into it, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. With all her skin, she felt how threateningly close around her "stinky" ring of human anger. The "silent" alone, with their persistent calls, even at night, could harass anyone, but no family member or colleague dared to rebuke her. Everyone knew about her vow to free Pulgatti, and it was no idle talk. It would take a little more effort, a little more time, and her client would walk free. He would embrace his family and friends, breathe in the morning coolness and enjoy the sunrise not through the rough bars, but from the steps of his own house. And though Pulgatti's soul still rattled with doubts, Beckett saw, felt, that she had awakened in him a thirst for life. She made him believe in a fair, impartial trial, in bright hopes, and in a favorable outcome of the case. Then they would both have a feast of heart and soul, and perhaps that infernal, inhuman fatigue pressing upon her would recede!

The tense court hearings, the heated arguments, and the perennial hustle and bustle of lawyering had already exhausted Beckett, and she was exhausted when she returned home. Right into her husband's loving arms. Her head ached, her back ached, her legs howled, and sleep overtook her wherever she could: in the kitchen with a slice of pizza, with a washcloth in a warm bath, or simply in a chair, with a briefcase in her hands. And Jim was well aware of that. In his arms he would bring his wife to bed, and silently tuck the blanket in, and sit down next to her. Stroking his beloved's frail fingers, he begged God for mercy. Then he snuggled up next to her, set his alarm clock, and in the morning it was all over again: jail, office, clerk's office, office, jail, and back again in a circle. In such hysterical whistle-blowing it was not long before she had a nervous breakdown, but Beckett tolerated it silently, stoically. Nodding, exchanged remarks, smiled: openly and friendly - to family, colleagues and friends, and coldly, independently, tightly pressed his lips - the envious and the enemies, and saved up her strength for a powerful, final spurt. The trial. That is where her heightened sense of justice would spring hard, and the jury would have no choice but to acquit Pulgatti. With her business emotions running high, her unyielding ambition, and her pride, she could do anything, endure anything, survive anything.