Most federal cases in Manhattan are litigated in the Daniel Patrick Moynihan Courthouse. Completed in the mid-1990s, the building is twenty-seven stories of marble. It’s the second-biggest courthouse in the country—surpassed only by one in Missouri, of all places.

When I was an ADA, I rarely set foot in federal court. My beat was the New York State criminal court, which is located down the street. On rare occasions, I’d be hauled in by some federal judge on a jurisdictional argument, and I’d always feel like Little Orphan Annie when she first walked through the door of Daddy Warbucks’s mansion. I couldn’t believe that anyone could practice law in such luxury. The federal courtrooms are enormous, with thirty-foot ceilings and furnishings that could be in the lobby of a five-star hotel—inlaid, solid cherry tables and high-back leather chairs.

My speculation about Donald Chesterman taking his revenge on Lauren was enough for Gabriel to insist that I have a police escort to the courthouse. But upon our arrival, I tell Officer Santiago that I’ll be safe inside without him. I point out the fact that the court has its own police force, not to mention that everyone goes through a metal detector to gain entry.

The gallery is full when I enter Judge Paulson’s courtroom, which means that there are more than a hundred spectators—ten times as many as are present during most court proceedings. I take a position along the back wall. There, I spy several reporters and at least two sketch artists doing their thing.

My father is at the lectern, his back to me, but his booming baritone fills the cavernous space. He makes point after point about how the prosecution’s approach should be disallowed, that Nicolai Garkov is entitled to the same due-process rights as anyone else, which include the right to be tried only on the charges set forth in the indictment, the right to confront his accusers, and the right not to have the jury unfairly prejudiced by innuendo about other crimes for which he does not stand accused.

Twenty minutes later, Judge Paulson says that he disagrees. And, of course, his opinion is the only one that counts.

I catch my father’s eye as he’s heading out of the courtroom.

“Ella,” he says, stopping to embrace me.

For a man who just lost a major motion, he doesn’t look the least bit upset. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want to win—in fact, I’ve never known anyone more competitive than my father. Even when Charlotte and I were little, he never let us win at anything, no matter what the contest. In court, he has an especially vicious kill-or-be-killed mentality.