The crowds outside the federal courthouse had continued to grow throughout the morning, and they were now spilling into the street. News crews were set up along the sidewalks, their satellite links extending upward from their vans, temporary monuments to the sacred twenty-four-hour news cycle. Reporters—both the bleached-blond bombshells from the national networks and their less glittering local colleagues—jostled for room to deliver their stand-ups from positions that gave their viewers the most intimate view of the chaos. The police and federal marshals fought against the tide of bodies, trying in vain to keep it back from the brick edifice.

Buddy made his way across Courthouse Way, fighting through the crush of people calling for Carpio’s head on a stick. He wondered what the people who had come to protest the arraignment did for a living, and how they could take a day from their lives to show up to a circus like this.

He and Cicero had concluded that it made little sense for Cicero to attempt to pass Cormack’s message on to law enforcement; he was too well known and recognizable to gain any traction. He might even be arrested. So it fell to Buddy to try to get someone’s attention. They also realized that reporting the information to a member of the Boston Police Department was likely to provide little value. The cops tended to have blinders on and focused solely on whatever task they had most recently been directed to accomplish. A cop tasked with crowd control wouldn’t listen to anyone trying to distract him—Buddy would be dismissed as a crackpot. Instead, he had to make his way to a federal marshal. It might still be useless, but it seemed that they were more likely to pay attention.

The masses were most concentrated in front of the main entrance to the courthouse, so Buddy made his way along the side of the courthouse, down Courthouse Way. The ratio of protesters to law enforcement fell off dramatically as he approached the entrance to the garage. There were several police vehicles there, set up as barricades to prevent any unauthorized vehicles from passing. Buddy was still twenty yards from the garage when he was stopped by a police line.

“This area is restricted. Please move back, sir,” a BPD officer informed Buddy firmly. There were no marshals nearby that Buddy could see, but a few yards behind the cop stood a young man in a blue windbreaker with “FBI” stenciled in large yellow lettering.

“Of course,” Buddy said. “I just have a message to deliver to that man.” Buddy pointed to the FBI agent.

“Sorry, sir, you’ll have to do that later. We’re busy at the moment.”

“It’s important, officer.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it is,” the cop said with derision.

“Please, it’s a message for Kit Steele.”

“Who?”

“Special Agent Kit Steele. She’s the one in charge of Vincente Carpio’s detention.”