“Requesting behavioral response team to Suite 701.”
One of the officers moved toward me with soft restraints.
For the first time, fear pierced the stillness.
Not fear for myself.
Fear that they would immobilize me while Margaret walked out with Noah.
I looked at Ruiz.
He was broad-shouldered, silver beginning at his temples. A faint scar cut through his left eyebrow. I knew that face.
Three years earlier, he had testified in my courtroom after intercepting an armed defendant attempting to enter the federal building through a service corridor. His report had been exact, disciplined, and honest even when the government attorney pressured him to embellish.
