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  Chemin turned, and looked at him with mild annoyance. "I'd almost forgotten that I live here with you," she said. "There's a certain solace to singleness that just came back to me recently. It's not so bad, when you think about it."

  Marshall was silent. Once again, her wit was cutting and

pinpoint accurate. Marshall suddenly felt silly. He was into his case and had again let his life float away. Chemin was moving further from him, and he was powerless to stop it.

  "I do still live here, Chemin," said Marshall defiantly, as if he needed to convince her.

  "You know what I did at work today?" she said. "I got on this computer we call The Eye. We call it that because it has one of the biggest databases in the world. I looked up
mar
riage, counseling, divorce, separation, ev
erything related to our situation. And you know what? We're not even close to being unique. Relationships are failing all over the world, Marshall. Our think tank guys at Hallogent say it's because crumbling morals and sexual promiscuity have led to a devaluation of commitment. We see commitment as death now. So, I guess we're part of a revolution. A revolution of selfish losers who are doomed to ruin good relationships then live our lives alone. Then I thought, it's not me. I'm not the one who gave up on us. You did. So, as our fading marriage adds to this pathetic statistic, you remember that, you remember that it's not me who put us there."

  He felt as if he'd been hit by a car. In a way he had. She had summed up their problem and juxtaposed it against the decline of modern civilization. And the worst part of it was that it was true, all of it.

  He left her and walked away, content to lick the wounds inflicted by the Chemin Express. He wished she would say something to reengage him, an apology, but she didn't. His inability to move forward in their relationship was a personal nightmare, but the heaviness of the silence behind him was just as awful.

  He turned against his better judgment and took another look at her. She shifted her feet beneath her on the sofa and had a curious half-smile on her face. Marshall moved up the stairs to their room. He decided to go to sleep early. Suddenly, he wanted only to rest, to be strong and focused for the fight tomorrow.

M
arshall and his team sat together, waiting for Mbutu's counsel to arrive. Mbutu sat alone on the other side of the room. The courtroom of Magistrate Paul Kapinski was packed for the arraignment.

  Normally, Mbutu would have been arraigned quickly and unceremoniously, but Mbutu had put off the court date in order to get counsel, or so he kept saying. He really wanted an audience, a media one. Neither Nate Williams nor Toby had even tried to fight the trial being televised. It would seem like a cheat to the public, and it deprived the government of the chance to put on its best face.

  "Whoever his lawyer is needs to learn to be punctual," said Marshall. He shifted in his seat, looking at the door.

  "Mr. Jackson?" said the magistrate. "Do you know what the delay is?"

  "We don't even know who opposing counsel is," said Marshall.

  "All questions will be answered in due time," said Mbutu. His followers in the gallery applauded loudly.

  "No statements or speeches, Mr. Mbutu," said Kapinski, a fortyish man with, of all things, a ponytail.

  Normally, in a case of this magnitude, the trial judge would pull rank and do the arraignment himself. But the judges on the district bench were fighting over the case, or so Marshall had heard. They all wanted it, and so the normal procedure was being followed.

  Ten minutes later, the courtroom doors opened, and in walked a black man dressed in a suit with a sash made of kente cloth. He was about sixty or so and had salt-andpepper hair. He walked regally, as if entering a king's chamber.

  "Jesus," said Marshall. "I don't believe it."

  "I thought he was retired," said Ryder.

  "Apparently not," said Walter.

  "Muhammad Rashad, for the defendant," said the tall man. "Excuse my tardiness, but I had to come from New York, and I only got the assignment last night."

  "Apology accepted, Mr. Rashad," said Kapinski. The magistrate seemed to be just as in awe as everyone on the prosecution team.

  Marshall was now greatly worried. Muhammad Rashad was a legend in civil rights circles. He was a former Black Panther who graduated from Harvard with a perfect grade point average. He was a certified genius who had several degrees. Rashad had marched with Dr. King, was an advisor to Malcolm X, and had uncovered a promotion conspiracy against black servicemen at Fort Bragg that resulted in a general being court-martialed.

  Rashad had been the toast of the legal profession for a while. He'd authored several books on criminal procedure, including
Defense of Life,
which was required reading in every law school. Marshall had waited in line for an hour to get a signed copy. He was sure that Kapinski and all the other lawyers had read it as well.

  Rashad's life had seemed charmed until his wife and daughter died in a car accident. Rashad flew into a clinical depression and alcohol abuse. He came out of it three years later but had no more taste for litigation. He retired to lecturing, writing books, and living in semiobscurity. But now, here he was, taking his place as Marshall's opposition.

  Rashad hugged Mbutu tightly, and for the first time, Marshall noticed that there was another person at the table. She was a striking woman with jet black hair. She was about thirty or so, and wore a skirt so short that it was probably not appropriate for court.

  "Leslie Reed, also for the defendant," said the woman. The magistrate acknowledged her. Leslie shook hands with Mbutu, and they all sat down.

  "Hubba hubba," said Ryder.

  "You can say that again," said Walter.

  "You both need to pull your brains out of your pants," said Roberta. "Leslie Reed is as smart, mean, and nasty as they come."

  "What do you know about her?" asked Marshall.

  "She's a very good trial lawyer, with a string of wins going back several years. I met her at a conference for women lawyers last year," said Roberta. "Millionaire lawyers, federal judges, but
she
was the keynote speaker. And she's only thirty-six."

  "Well, we have our little dream defense team, don't we?" said Marshall. He nodded to Rashad and Leslie, who both suddenly looked larger than life.

  The magistrate asked them if they were ready, and both sides acknowledged. Suddenly, Marshall felt a surge of adrenaline, his stomach tightened and his mind became alert. He always got this way when it was time to litigate. It was a predator's game, and his natural instincts always got him ready for a fight.

  Kapinski read the case into the record, then asked Mbutu how he pled.

  "Not guilty, Your Honor," said Mbutu. His supporters, members of the Brotherhood, clapped, despite Kapinski's warning.

  "Bail?" asked Kapinski.

  "None," said Marshall. "This man murdered a justice of the Supreme Court. I don't think there's anything left to say."

  "Just this, Your Honor," said Rashad. "My client surrendered voluntarily, saving the government precious resources and time. He has not hidden from justice but has come to confront it head on."

  "So, what is your request for bail?" asked Kapinski.

  "None, Your Honor," said Rashad, "but my client would like a special arrangement made so that he can take an active part in his defense. He'd like the power to question cer tain government witnesses from the FBI and CIA, as well as do part of the opening and closing arguments."

  "I am just the magistrate, Mr. Rashad. I can't—"

  "We will oppose," said Marshall. "Allowing this power will let the defendant testify while still using the Fifth Amendment to block the government's cross-examination."

  "He makes a good point, Mr. Rashad," said Kapinski.

  "There's no danger," said Rashad. "My client is just trying to protect himself."

  "I'm sorry," said Kapinski, "but I can't grant your request. No bail, and defendant will be held—"

  "Then we have one other request," said Rashad. "Will you allow my client to reside in the government's special prison quarters? This case is of a magnitude that warrants it."

  Marshall was suddenly aware that they all had been played. The government's special quarters were really nothing more than a nice, guarded hotel room. Rashad was a cagey lawyer. Come in late and shock everyone, ask for the sun, then get the moon. Retirement had not deprived him of his edge.

  "The government opposes," said Marshall, but he already knew that he'd lose on this point. Rashad had put the issue in the air, and Kapinski was relishing his role as de facto trial judge.

  "Noted," said Kapinski. "I'll make that recommendation to the judge once this case is assigned. This matter is closed. Defendant is remanded to custody."

  Marshall was upset. He'd clearly been outsmarted, and the TV cameras had captured it all. He was sure that some panel of legal experts would note this, then say how he should have seen it coming and should have worn a better tie.

  "Toby will want to talk to us about this turn of events," said Ryder.

  "I know," said Marshall. Rashad was serious business. And judging from the TV reporters who swirled around him, he was serious news as well.

  Just then, Rashad and Leslie walked over to Marshall. "We should confer, Counselor," said Rashad.

  "Gladly," said Marshall.

* * *

Danny and Vinny pulled up to the Big Boy restaurant on Jefferson Avenue just north of Belle Isle. It was a beautiful winter day, and the Detroit River sparkled in the distance.

  They had the day off, and Danny was in good spirits. The information that he'd gotten from the party store robbers had helped the drug force close down a major dealer on the west side. He had gotten partial credit for the bust. Danny also had passed the first level of his antiaggression course, an event that had not gone unnoticed by his superiors. He could see that gold shield becoming his. He already knew that he'd ask for his father's old number. Keep the tradition alive.

  They sat at a table in the back. The waitress came over, and Danny ordered for them both.

  "Who's gonna eat all that food?" asked Vinny.

  "I am," said Danny.

  "If you get fat, I'm dumping you," said Vinny.

  "What?" said Danny. "You'd kick me to the curb over something like that?"

  "Shit, men do it all the time. Get fat, get lost."

  "Not me."

  "Oh, so if I turned into one of them fat, three-hundredpound, sittin'-up-on-Jerry-Springer-trailer-trash women, you'd still want me."

  "Yeah," said Danny. "I'd get someone else to sleep with you, but you'd still be my girl." Danny laughed, and Vinny tossed a napkin at his face.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion behind Danny. He turned and saw two black men at the cash register. One was muscular and held a shotgun. The other was thin and brandished a revolver. The shotgun was pointed at the head of a very frightened manager.

  "Give it up!" yelled the man with the shotgun. The manager opened a register and stuffed money into a bag.

  People screamed and ducked under their tables. Several people ran for the bathrooms, and waitresses dropped plates of food that landed with loud crashes.

  Danny looked at Vinny, who was already reaching for her service revolver. Danny nodded to her, then placed his hands on both his guns.

Still feeling the rush of adrenaline from court, Marshall sat across from Rashad and Leslie Reed. Bob Ryder and the rest of the team were with him in the conference room.

  Mbutu had been taken back to prison and was probably laughing at him on his way. Rashad had scored a minor victory, but it was nonetheless the first blow in the battle. Marshall could not help but be a little bit in awe of the man. It was like a baseball player meeting Hank Aaron or a priest meeting the pope. Rashad was legal royalty, and he carried himself as such. He casually walked into the room with Leslie Reed a step behind; he laughed and talked as if he were at a party instead of an assassination trial.

  Marshall tried to match Rashad's calmness, but he knew he could not. He was still young in terms of experience, and he was pumped for the fight of his career.

  "You could have just asked me to put Mbutu in special quarters."

  "I would have, ten years ago, but these days you young lawyers litigate by resistance. You oppose everything. The art of knowing when to compromise has been lost."

  "I won't argue," said Marshall. "I'm authorized to take a plea from you. I can give you some time to familiarize yourself with the evidence in the case if you like."

  "No need for that," said Leslie Reed. "We won't be accepting a plea." She had what was almost a scowl on her face. Most lawyers had a negotiation expression, a hard-ass look to let everyone know that they meant business. It was commonplace, but somehow Marshall thought that this was more than a game face. Her dislike for him seemed genuine.