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  He moved to the end of the hallway. He got to the elevator and found it filled. A large group of people waited for the next car. Marshall walked to the end of the hallway and took the stairs. He was headed back to the U.S. attorney's office, and he knew the place would be on fire.

M
arshall walked into the U.S. attorney's office building on Fort Street in Detroit. The huge building had once been a bank, but was now home to the feds. With its imposing stone body, tall glass windows, and spacious lobby, it still looked like a business office.

  Marshall rushed in, flashed his ID at the security men, but found that they stopped him anyway.

  "Sorry, Marsh," said one of the security guards. "We have to search everyone today. We're on alert."

  "It's okay," said Marshall as the guard passed a detector wand over his body.

  Marshall quickly passed by the guard station and got on a crowded elevator. He pushed the button that read "23." The car started up.

  Marshall felt himself breathing hard. His heart was beating rapidly under his chest. He realized in that moment that he'd run all the way over.

  "I heard his head was blown off," a man behind Marshall whispered.

  "He won't get any tears from me," said a woman. "He got what he deserved."

  "A man was murdered," said another woman, in a blue suit. She was standing in the front of the elevator. "I don't appreciate your statement."

  The elevator doors opened and the woman in blue walked out with several other people. Marshall turned and looked behind him. The couple that had spoken were both black, but he knew that already. Black people hated Farrel Douglas. Douglas was not his favorite legal personality either. He didn't like any of his decisions and felt that Douglas tried too hard to be the ultraconservative that everyone said he was. But he did not hate the man. He just didn't understand him.

  The elevator made another stop, then reached the twentythird floor. Marshall stepped off and moved to the hall guard, who searched him again. Marshall moved on. The seal of the U.S. attorney's office greeted him on a wall.

  Marshall rushed in to find the office quiet. He expected the place to be in a frenzy. The area was mostly deserted. Only a few assistants manned their posts. Marshall walked over to Jessica Cole, a pretty young secretary who was fond of long, painted fingernails.

  "Where is everybody, Jess?" asked Marshall.

  "In the lounge, there's some kind of conference on TV about the murder," said Jessica. She smiled at him, and her gaze lingered. Marshall remembered that Jessica had a crush on him. He'd heard about it secondhand but was aware that she found him attractive.

  "Thanks, Jess."

  "You're welcome, Marshall," said the young girl.

  Marshall walked off and was aware that she was watching him as he left. He tried not to think about the young girl. He was a married man and he already had enough problems at home. He walked to his office, tossing his things inside.

  It was unusual for the place to be so quiet. The federal government was a constant in the world, a place where there was always some kind of work to do. Then Marshall remembered that national incidents like Douglas's assassination were dark holidays, times when the government, and probably everything else, stopped normal business.

  Marshall made his way to the lounge, where a crowd was crammed into the small room. It looked like everyone from his division was there.

  He worked in the Capital Crime Division, a department where the best and brightest ended up. They prosecuted only major federal crimes. Every incident of murder, hate crime, and drug offenses in the region ended up at their doorstep. It occurred to Marshall for the first time that the assassination of Douglas was one of those cases, and might be assigned to his office.

  "Can you believe this shit, Marsh?" asked a portly man about thirty. He was Walter Anderson, a lawyer who'd come into the office about the same time as Marshall. Walter was a chubby, round-faced black man with a quick laugh and keen instincts. He was a good lawyer and Marshall's best friend in the office. They socialized in and out of the office, and had done several cases together.

  Walter was a good man and a fine lawyer, but he'd had some serious problems with drinking and gambling that had almost gotten him kicked out of the office. But Walter had made it through the hard times, the divorce, and therapy. He was better now but still had to take it one day at a time.

  "No, I can't believe it," said Marshall. "What do we know so far?"

  "Douglas was blasted by a pro," said Walter. "Highpowered rifle, the whole bit. Messed him up pretty good, I hear. A retired lawyer named Wendel Miller caught one, too."

  "I heard they chased a suspect, a black one," said someone.

  "Yeah, but he got himself killed," said Walter. "Committed suicide is more like it. This fool turns on a cop while holding a piece of wood. Well, of course the cop shot him dead."

  "Who was the dead guy?" asked Marshall.

  "Don't know yet," said Walter.

  "The boss have anything to say?"

  "You know old Nate, nothing. He's waiting to see where the dust settles, then he'll spring right into action. So, who do you think is gonna catch it?"

  "This?" asked Marshall. "I'd guess that they bring in an outside hitter, someone from D.C. This is big, like Oklahoma City. I guess he'll assign Deacons, then." John Deacons was Marshall's boss and the head of CCD.

  "Shhh," said a heavyset woman with blond hair. "I can't hear. Toby is about to comment."

  "Sorry, Roberta," said Marshall. Roberta Shebbel was one of the best lawyers in the Capital Crimes Division. She'd received more offers from law firms to leave the government than anyone else in the place, even Marshall.

  They all watched as Helen Newhall, the United States attorney general, came onscreen. Newhall, called Toby in private, was a modest-looking woman with a head full of short, dark hair. Toby walked up to a podium crowded with microphones.

  "I have spoken with the president, who will make his address to the nation in a half hour," she said. "But he has told me to express his deep sorrow at the loss of a great American jurist.

  "The Justice Department will be coordinating with law enforcement to apprehend the suspect. At this time, we are still investigating the crime scene, and hope to have leads soon. I will be flying to Detroit after this conference to head the effort myself."

  Toby descended the stage as questions were yelled out. She waved them off, and made her exit.

  The lounge exploded into conversation. The attorneys and staffers understood that the investigation would center in Detroit, and that meant they all were in a position to see some action on the case.

  "Well, I'm done for the day," said Walter. "And it looks like a lot of judges will be adjourning cases in the coming week in order to go to Douglas's funeral."

  "You sound happy about it," said Marshall.

  "I like it when judges let me go home early, Marshall. Besides, I hated that damned Douglas. It's sad, but that's what you get when you do what he did."

  "And what did he do?" asked Marshall.

  "He betrayed his people," said Walter. "He's like those black men who used to round up freed slaves and sell them back into slavery."

  "That's a little harsh, don't you think?" asked Marshall. "Douglas was a judge, not some turncoat in a war."

  "Really? Tell that to my cousin. He didn't get into medical school because of one of Douglas's rulings. After all the struggle we've done in this country, the best we could get on the court was him? I don't think so."

  "The man had a family, Walter, kids."

  "I know and I feel more sorry for them, but I can't lie. I despised the man."

  Marshall said good-bye to Walter then walked to his office. It was a small but sufficient place. On his wall hung pictures of Dr. King, Mandela, and Jesse Jackson. Next to them were pictures he'd taken with federal judges Thurgood Marshall, Damon Keith, Leon Higginbotham, and Stephen Bradbury, all of whom he greatly admired.

  Marshall's door was open, and the chatter from the office was loud. He was restless. Even though he played it cool with Walter, he was already thinking that he wanted in on the Douglas prosecution. Maybe Deacons would assign him to the team.

  Marshall had only a few years in the office, but he'd prosecuted many capital cases and had an impressive winning record. Farrel Douglas was not his idol, but no one could just kill a federal judge and get away with it. It struck him as a little corny, but it offended his sense of justice. Also, he knew that if he were ever going to become a federal judge, which was his goal, he was going to have to prosecute cases like this, something more noteworthy than a wounded ATF officer and a scumbag like Lewis Quince.

  Marshall sat down but couldn't keep still. He jumped out of his chair and was headed for the door when he noticed that the chatter had stopped. He looked up to see Nathan Williams, the head of the U.S. attorney's office, walking into his doorway.

  Nathan was a fiercely intelligent lawyer and a good friend. He'd been in office for five years or so. The U.S. attorney changed when the president changed, so there was always a new man coming. But Nate had held on for a while and was rumored to be going to Washington. He'd made headlines after he helped solve the murder of Harris Yancy, the Detroit mayor, with the help of a state prosecutor named Jesse King.

  Nate walked into the office. He was normally a spit-and polish kind of guy. But today he was disheveled, his tie was undone and coat rumpled. Then Marshall remembered that Douglas had been a mentor to Nathan when the latter was just a young lawyer. They were friends, and he was probably feeling all of the pain you felt when someone was taken before his time.

  "Sorry about your loss, sir," said Marshall.

  "Yes. He was . . . a great man," said Williams. "We were actually scheduled to have dinner tonight. I'm expecting my first grandchild soon. We were going to celebrate."

  "I guess the court will be in mourning for a while."

  "Yes, but I've already heard rumors of replacements for him."

  "Jesus," said Marshall. "What's wrong with people?"

  "It's just business, Marshall. There are several important cases coming to the Supreme Court. They need a full bench. If the president doesn't start now, his enemies will undermine him." Williams looked sad for a moment. "Toby is coming late tonight, Marshall. I think you should meet her."

  "Yes, sir. If you don't mind my asking—"

  "She's bringing a lawyer from her staff," Williams cut him off. "But his job will really be to observe and keep Toby in the loop. The man who was shot could not have done this alone. When we find his accomplices, they will be prosecuted out of this office—and you're going to do it."

  Marshall was shocked into silence. He took a breath, then said: "Thank you, sir. But what about John Deacons?"

  "This is big, but it's not for him. You're the man for this job."

  Deacons was white, and Marshall wondered if that was what Nate meant. He wanted to ask him but didn't want to risk offending Nate. It was not often that a black man rose to Nate's position in the legal profession. He had probably suffered all manner of insult to his intelligence and competence in his time. Marshall didn't want to add to it by questioning his decision. It would sound ungrateful.

  "I'm very flattered and pleased to take the assignment, sir," said Marshall.

  "You get to pick the rest of your team. Just two others. Any other people will be behind-the-scenes support. Get ready for an all-nighter. Toby will be in at midnight."

  Williams walked away. Marshall followed him out of the door and into the bull pen. Williams was not the kind of man to sit on a decision. He was already prosecuting the case, and the killer hadn't even been caught yet.

  Suddenly, Marshall noticed his colleagues staring at him. They had apparently been watching his office all along. He knew that they knew. Walter Anderson quickly moved over to him. His face was flushed with excitement.

  "You got it, didn't you, you sonofabitch?"

  "Yes." Marshall headed for the door.

  "I'm putting in my bid right now," said Walter. "I want on the team."

  "I need some air, man," said Marshall. "Excuse me."

  Marshall walked out of the office, and headed for the elevator.

  "Don't forget about your friends when you choose the team," Walter called after him.

  The office din seemed louder as he walked to the elevators. His head was spinning. He had just been tapped to prosecute the biggest case of his career, and despite the terrible tragedy involved, he felt like dancing.

  Marshall walked slowly to the elevators and got on. He turned, and saw his colleagues still watching him in awe. The elevator doors closed, and the last thing he saw was the seal of the United States, finely etched in glass.

L
aShawn Reid counted out his money carefully. The bills were new, and they tended to stick together. He smiled and smelled the newly minted bills. Nothing smelled as sweet as new money, he thought. He quickly finished. It was all there, five thousand dollars. Pretty good for some little damned pieces of metal, he thought. He didn't own a computer, but he knew the chips were worth a lot of cash.

  LaShawn, his partner, O.T., and the buyer were standing in an abandoned auto body garage on the east side of the city. The floor was littered with old scrap metal and broken tools. The sun was out, but it was a January morning, and the garage didn't provide much shelter, so it was cold inside.