Suddenly everyone in the witness room is standing around me, shuffling, speaking in hushed tones. The prison doctor stands beside the gurney, listening to Hanratty’s chest through a stethoscope, double-checking the leads that run to the EKG monitor. The reporters are wired—they always are at this point—unsure of their reactions even as they try to record them. No first-timer is ever ready for the banality of execution. Only we functionaries of the justice system know how depressing it really is. The doctor nods to the warden, and the warden motions for the curtain to be closed.

Mrs. Givens thanks me for coming, then moves purposefully toward the door.

“You switched to prizefighting for a living?” Joe Cantor is standing beside me, a glint of humor in his eyes.

My hand instinctively goes to my bruised eye. “I fell.”

“We still miss you at the office,” he says, shaking my hand with a grip reminiscent of Shad Johnson’s. “Nobody works a jury the way you did, Penn.”

“I wasn’t working them, Joe. I was speaking from the heart.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. They don’t teach that in school. You were also the only assistant with the balls to argue with me. I kind of miss that too, believe it or not.” He leans closer. “Watch out for Portman. That prick’s had a hard-on for you ever since Hanratty’s trial. And call me if you ever get tired of writing books.”

Then he is past me, shaking hands with someone else, working the crowd even here.

As I pass into the hall beyond the door, I find myself face to face with John Portman. His guards stand two feet behind him, their jackets unbuttoned to provide easy access to their weapons. Portman studies me with gray eyes set in his windburned face, a badge of privilege he has cultivated since youth. I decide to fire the first shot in this skirmish.

“I can’t figure out what you’re doing here, Portman. You must have known you were exposing yourself to something like what just happened.”

“I can absorb what just happened,” he replies, his voice edgier than I remember. “It was worth it to see that genetic debris put down.”

A couple of reporters stop to question the FBI director, but the guards hustle them through the door.

“You’re friends with Special Agent Peter Lutjens, aren’t you?” Portman says.

A cold wind blows through my soul. “Just tell me.”

“He’s being transferred to Fargo, North Dakota. Lovely winters, I hear.”

“The guy is blameless, John.”

“Internal security is one of the hallmarks of the new Bureau,” he replies in a PR voice. “Agent Lutjens didn’t understand that.”

As I wonder how Portman learned of my contact with Lutjens, he says, “Stick your nose into Bureau business, you get rhinoplasty. It’s that simple.”