Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV décor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who’d likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.

Yawn.

I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his fifty-thousand dollar bail downstairs.

But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.

Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney—tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn’t make legal careers.

“Mr. Pines, you’ve been charged with possession of child pornography,” the judge boomed from his bench. “How do you plead?”

The pasty attorney took his cue. “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”

I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught redhanded by the police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.

“Very well. Prosecution on bail?” The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn’t any of these guys ever see the sun?

“Your Honor, the People request bail be set at ten million dollars.”

“Sonofa—” I sucked in a breath and heard a round of gasps ripple through the courtroom at the exorbitant amount.

Pines might have been a public figure and a creep, but it wasn’t like he’d killed anyone. Even murder charges rarely topped a million in bail. I leaned forward in my seat. This was about to get juicy—I could feel it.

“Your Honor, that’s outrageous,” the defense attorney argued. His cheeks actually showed some color now. “My client is an upstanding member of society, highly regarded by his peers. He has deep ties to the community, and, quite frankly, I feel the D.A.’s bail request is ludicrously out of proportion to the crime at hand.”

The judge raised his bushy eyebrows. “You think child pornography isn’t a big deal, counselor?”