At the east end of the pier, we showed our VIP tags again and got admitted into the grand ballroom. The outsize space with its star-studded ceiling had been designed back in 1916 with this kind of event in mind. A band, lost in one of the alcoves, was playing a rumba, the music barely audible above the hubbub of the crowd. White-jacketed waiters offered us little snacks, members of the legislature and the governor’s entourage huddled with lobbyists and lawyers, PR staff and journalists kept firing camera strobes at obligingly grinning guests, and, near each entrance, city cops stood at grim attention.

We were handed Brian Krumas lapel pins by a twenty-something volunteer when we entered, and, everywhere we turned, Brian’s smile gleamed at us, tacked to tables, chairs, the support columns in the room. Topping it all was a floor-to-ceiling portrait of the candidate with his slogan, KRUMAS FOR A CHANGE IN ILLINOIS. He was flanked by the president of the United States, the governor of Illinois, and the mayor of Chicago.

We were working our way to the drinks table when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Arnold Coleman, my old boss at the county criminal courts. He’d been a political flunky who made sure not to step on the toes of a powerful state’s attorney, and he’d been given his reward: a state appellate judgeship.

“Vic! Good to see you have time to turn out for young Brian, even if a judicial campaign is beneath you.”

“Judge Coleman, congratulations on your election.” I had turned down my invitation to a fundraiser for Coleman’s campaign—Illinois treats its judiciary like any other commodity for sale—and Arnie clearly had kept a list of friends and foes. Another Illinois tradition.

“You keeping your nose clean, Vic?” the judge asked genially.

“Wipe it twice a day, Judge, on my sleeve, just like we used to do at Twenty-sixth and California … Judge Coleman, this is Mr. Contreras.”

My old boss gave a fake laugh and turned back to his own party, ignoring my neighbor’s outstretched hand.

“Cookie, that’s no way to talk to a judge,” Mr. Contreras scolded.

“I don’t know. From what I hear from my old pals at the bar association, justice in Coleman’s court isn’t just blind, she’s deaf and lame, too. The only one of the five senses she has left is touch, to feel how big the bills you’re pressing into Coleman’s hand are.”

“That’s terrible what you’re saying. It can’t be true. People wouldn’t stand for it.”