conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled Mistress of Justice about Times with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The best psychological thriller writer around The Times
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Mistress of Justice
  He'd made one last trip to see her—just before he'd made the call to 911, which closed up the West Side Art and Photography Club forever.
  It was also untrue. There were no strings on the money once she turned eighteen, as the trust officer would undoubtedly tell her. But she'd have a few years to think about it and might just try a class or two. Junie might just succeed at school; she was, he'd concluded, more savvy than half the lawyers at Hubbard, White & Willis.
  She'd hugged him and then looked at him in that coy way that, before this, would've melted him. But he'd said he had to be going. He had an important meeting—with a pay phone. He'd looked at her for a long moment then kissed her on the cheek and left.
  He wondered if Junie would say anything about him. She was, of course, in a position not only to destroy the delicate balance of his career, such as it was, but also to send him to prison for the rest of his life.
  These possibilities he considered with remarkable serenity, sipping coffee from a porcelain cup. He weighed the odds and decided that she would say nothing. Although she'd been badly used by life and had the dangerous edge of those who learn survival skills before maturity, Junie was nonetheless motivated by a kind of justice. She saw essential good and essential evil, assigned her loyalty accordingly and stuck by her choice.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Nonetheless, at eight o'clock in the evening, here was Taylor Lockwood, sitting in a large swivel chair at the base of the U, the chair Donald Burdick reserved for himself.
  She didn't tell him about the latest assault just yet. She muttered, "It's just a matter of time until we're dead—if I don't stop things right here. Now."
  She didn't answer. She glanced up, over Reece's shoulder, and said, "Turn around and find out." She hid the gun behind her back and called, "We're over here. Come on in."
  A figure emerged from the dull light of the hallway into the deeper shadow of the end of the conference room. Donald Burdick, his posture perfect, like a ballroom dancer's, stepped past the doors, which swung closed with a heavy snap.
  She started to speak. Her voice choked and then she cleared her throat. "I had a speech rehearsed, Donald. I forgot it.... But what I do know is that you hired that man to steal the note and set up Clayton's suicide. Then you had him run us off the road and try to kill me—twice."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Alice's trips to Wonderland and the Looking-Glass world had, after all, been dreams and the girl had eventually wakened from them.
  Taylor flagged down a cab, got in and gave the driver the address of her apartment building. As the dirty vehicle squealed away from the curb she slouched down in the seat, staring at the greasy Plexiglas divider.
  The cab was a block away from her apartment when she leaned forward and told the driver she'd changed her mind.
  Dimitri twisted his curly hair and leaned over the microphone. (His habitual suspicion left when she told him, "I'll play for free. You keep the receipts—all of them—but the tips're mine. And, Dimitri: No satin touch. Not tonight, okay?")
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Alice's trips to Wonderland and the Looking-Glass world had, after all, been dreams and the girl had eventually wakened from them.
  Taylor flagged down a cab, got in and gave the driver the address of her apartment building. As the dirty vehicle squealed away from the curb she slouched down in the seat, staring at the greasy Plexiglas divider.
  The cab was a block away from her apartment when she leaned forward and told the driver she'd changed her mind.
  Dimitri twisted his curly hair and leaned over the microphone. (His habitual suspicion left when she told him, "I'll play for free. You keep the receipts—all of them—but the tips're mine. And, Dimitri: No satin touch.