Kit couldn’t believe the size of the crowds. She’d anticipated some level of public interest—after all, Vincente Carpio was one of the most reviled criminals in American history. He was, to many, a combination of Jeffrey Dahmer and Osama Bin Laden. His crimes were both grotesque and anti-American, and inspired a mix of hate and curiosity that many found irresistible.

And yet the number of people who had turned out to scream obscenities was shocking. There were so many that the van had difficulty passing down Northern Avenue once it got near the courthouse. The mob had spilled into the street, and the police and federal forces seemed powerless to control them.

It took only a moment before some in the crowd realized that the convoy was carrying the object of their venom. At first, they simply shouted at the van and its accompanying vehicles. Quickly, though, the crowd pushed forward until it was up against the van on all sides. The police were fighting to keep people back, but it seemed hopeless. The van started rocking as protestors pushed back and forth on the sides. They were stalled, with crowds in front of them now.

Steele was sitting in the front seat and she looked back at Carpio. For the entire ride, she’d been tempted to take out her gun and shoot him right there. He was so close, she could touch him, and it would take almost no effort to blow his head off. It would be just, in her view. He’d killed Ollie. He’d killed so many more. No one could say that it wasn’t just.

But it wasn’t justice.

That was what she couldn’t let go of. Even in all of her hatred and grief, she couldn’t let go of her sense of justice. And justice could only happen with a trial and a jury, and a process that ensured fairness.

He sat there, staring straight ahead, his face impassive. He didn’t look to either side, and he didn’t acknowledge the hate that was directed at him from the crowd. And then just for a moment, Steele thought she detected the shadow of a smile on his lips.

She looked out at the crowds again, and she noticed a group of men with hooded sweatshirts and backpacks, the hoods pulled up over their heads. They weren’t chanting with the crowd, and they seemed not to be paying attention to the convoy at all. As one of them turned his head to scan the crowd, Steele caught a fleeting glimpse of his face, and was sure that it was covered with tattoos.

“Move forward!” she ordered the driver.

“There are people blocking us, ma’am,” the driver responded.

“They’ll get out of the way if you move forward!”

“How do you know?”

“Just drive! Go slowly and blow the horn.”