I’d prematurely anticipated victory, foolishly assuming that reason might trump ego. I wasn’t alone—not since O.J. Simpson had a courtroom provided such fodder for the press. MSNBC finagled a fifteen-second clip of Dell Nelson getting in the Department of Corrections car. He was timidly grabbing his ear, whispering, “Ow” as his security guard gently escorted him into the back. Every network bought the rights to the video and played it on repeat. It was tough to see how such a man could be a “murderous animal,” something Robert Nussbaum kept screaming on his way out of the courthouse, flanked by police officers. This, too, was caught on tape and frequently juxtaposed with Dell Nelson’s earache. Add to that the Coop’s exclusive interview with the Tipper, who’d admitted to a sleeping problem, and the latest CNN poll had 62 percent of Americans demanding a resentencing. Heck, many were demanding a retrial altogether.

As a result, Linda Adams found herself in a most precarious situation. Being tough on crime and tough on the Ear Whisperer had suddenly become mutually exclusive. But she couldn’t publicly change her mind—nobody liked a wishy-washy Supreme Court nominee.

Well, that’s not totally true. Judge Friedman was positively giddy. A week after the hearings, the New York Times ran a picture of Dell Nelson clutching his ear. To his right was a photo of Friedman, to his left, one of Adams. The caption: “A Deadly Match Point: Friedman v. Adams.”

“Good morning, law clerks,” the judge said, breezing into our clerks cave holding the paper. “The Nelson case is looking rilly rilly good.” She greeted Roy and Janet and proceeded to her office. Because the judges had tied, the past week had been spent with each judge lobbying the other to switch his or her vote. To the outside world—silence. Nothing fueled speculation like silence.

Linda Adams was apoplectic. She seemed like the murderer now. Ironically, in order to save her nomination, she needed to save Dell Nelson, something she’d so emphatically fought against over the past sixth months. Kevin said she was secretly begging two of her best friends on the court to switch their votes, votes she’d relentlessly courted prior to the en banc.

“Sheila, hey, ah, he called, the clerk called,” Evan whispered to me behind my cubicle. “Grab Matthew and meet me in the back.” I followed his orders.

“So, Sheila—seems you have a future, if not in the law, in investigative journalism. You were right—this Nussbaum guy has been funneling money to Mayor Adams’s campaigns. Three times the amount that should have gotten Adams recused from the get-go. Anyway, Judge Fleck should be alerting the rest of the court any minute now. Adams’s vote is no good.”

“So the tie’s been broken!” I smiled.

“We won!” Matthew hugged me. “That poor guy will get another shot.”