“Madam President, I’m sorry about the verdict. But it’s not the end. Not by a long shot.”

“How’s Ransom?” The president’s voice sounds cold and flat.

“He’s fine, Madam President. Disappointed about Cole, of course. He’s right here if you want to speak with him.”

“Is it just the two of you there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Put me on speaker.”

Pearce presses another button and puts down the handset. “Okay, ma’am. You’re on with me and the vice president.”

“Hello, Maddy,” Faulkner calls out from his chair. “How’s Cole holding up?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet. He’s on his way to processing, if you can believe that.”

“It doesn’t seem real,” says Pearce.

“Let me know if I can do anything,” says Faulkner.

“You’re going to be doing a lot,” says the president. “I’m resigning.”

CHAPTER
133

Rockingham County Jail, New Hampshire

Cole Wright doesn’t remember much after the first Guilty was spoken. Tess Hardy put one hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear, but her words were no comfort.

The next sensation he had was the feeling of cold cuffs being clamped around his wrists. Then strong hands gripped his upper arms and propelled him to the exit corridor, where true tunnel vision limited his perception to only what was directly in front of him.

The ride to the county jail was a blur of traffic and signs and the thump-thump of news choppers overhead. And then the car slowed down and rolled through a garage entrance.

He thought about his wife. How did Maddy learn the news? Was she watching the verdict come in on TV like the rest of the world? Or did she wait for Burton Pearce to tell her?

And now, reality is setting in.

Not setting in, really. More like slapping him in the face.

Cole is standing in an antiseptic-smelling corridor surrounded by police and Secret Service agents.

It looks like his people have done all they can to smooth the intake. The forms have been filled out and filed. He’s spared the indignity of having to give his address and the name of his spouse: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. President Madeline Wright. They gave him the courtesy of conducting the cavity search behind a hospital curtain.

But in every other way, he’s just another prisoner.

He sits on a metal chair while a technician unlocks the ankle monitor. The device is redundant now. Everybody knows where he is, and he’s not going anywhere.

He’s photographed.

He’s fingerprinted.

He’s led into a tiny room, where he takes off his bespoke suit and puts on an orange outfit stenciled with ROCKINGHAM COUNTY DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS.

No more power. No more influence. Now he’s just a number. And he doesn’t even know what that number is.