‘Marian Braun,’ Glitsky said.

Making a face and no promises, Chomorro got a few more details, then finally said he’d put in a call to Braun and get some answers if he could. But he told them they shouldn’t expect much – any communication about grand jury proceedings was prohibited. If they wanted to wait…

Glitsky stayed with the judge, but Hardy decided he had to see Frannie.

He’d been to the jail dozens of times and knew the routine, so within minutes he was in the attorneys’ visiting room, waiting for his wife.

He hadn’t really prepared himself. With other clients, he made it a point to pre-visualize their entrance into this room. It was often the first time he would see them in the jail’s orange jumpsuit, and the reality of someone he’d known in civilian life dressed for the slammer was always something of a shock.

In this case, the first sight was more in the order of a physical assault. Frannie, always petite, looked positively gaunt. In the room’s institutional glare, his wife’s cheeks were ghostly – the washed-out, faded yellow-gray of ancient paste. Her beautiful red hair had already lost its luster and now hung flat and drab.

A glance reconnected them and they crossed to each other, nearly falling into an embrace. Frannie clung to him, her face buried in her chest, repeating, ‘Thank God, thank God,’ over and over.

He held her.

Finally, their hands enfolded on the table, they began to get to it, Frannie trying to explain away the subpoena, and the fact that she hadn’t told him about it. ‘I didn’t think it was anything, that’s why.’

Hardy shook his head. This wasn’t tracking right. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you thought it was something, Frannie. If you thought it was nothing, you would have told me about it. You would have said, “I got this subpoena today to go testify in front of the grand jury. I wonder what it’s all about.” Instead, you kept it to yourself.’ She was silent, biting at her lower lip. After a minute, Hardy prompted her. ‘Frannie?’