The attorney general hands him the glass and pours one for herself. She swirls the liquid in it slowly. “How are your feet holding up, Hugh?”

Bastinelli shakes his head. Trying a case requires long hours of standing before the court. “Nobody told me being a prosecutor would be so hard on my arches.”

Pope laughs. “Yeah. Try doing it in heels.” She lifts her glass. “To justice.”

Bastinelli returns the toast. “To justice.” He takes a sip and feels the warmth in the back of his throat. Pope’s office is dark and cozy, lit only by a pair of antique banker’s lamps on her desk. Nobody has smoked in here for decades, but the carpet and leather furniture still retain an essence of last century’s tobacco, lightened slightly by the scent of Pope’s perfume.

“Are the protesters still going strong outside the courthouse?” Pope asks.

“They never seem to stop,” says Bastinelli. “They must work in shifts.” Bastinelli cradles his scotch in both hands. He stares across the desk, almost fearful about this first sit-down with his boss since the trial started. “How are we doing, Jen?”

Pope takes another sip. “It would be a lot easier if we had a bullet hole and a gun.”

“A smoking gun,” says Bastinelli.

“Seriously, though,” says Pope. “You’re doing a great job with the hand we’ve been dealt. But Tess Hardy is tough. We knew she would be. If there’s a crack, she’ll find it.”

“Right. Then she’ll make it wider.”

“I’m worried about a hung jury,” says Pope. “I think you’re getting to most of them, but all she needs is one strong holdout.”

Bastinelli sets his jaw. “Then we’ll retry him.”

Pope shakes her head. She points toward the window. “Those protesters at the courthouse are expanding their reach. They’re showing up outside the governor’s mansion. Also on the front lawns of the state senate’s president, the state’s speaker of the house, and a couple of executive councilors. Nobody will be in any mood to start this circus again.”

“God, I would love to get Cole on the stand,” says Bastinelli.

“In your dreams,” says Pope. “Tess will never allow it. She’s afraid he’ll give a nominating speech.”

“Right. Or call a football play.”

Pope’s intercom chimes. She answers. “Ruthie? What are you still doing here? It’s ten o’clock.”

A young woman’s voice comes through the speaker. “Just answering some emails, ma’am. You’ve got a visitor. Insists on seeing you right away. Security’s holding him downstairs.”

“Who’s on duty?”

“Kevin, ma’am.”

“Put me through.”

Ruthie switches Pope to the security guard downstairs. Pope keeps the call on speaker.

“Kevin? Who’s the guest?”

“His name’s Donovan. Used to work for the Patriots. He has an envelope with him. Says he might have a bombshell.”

“Does he seem sane?”

“Yes, ma’am.”