Franklin looks back at Marston. “You want to rethink your answer, Leo?”

Marston draws himself up like a feudal lord being forced by a priest to deal civilly with serfs. “I brought some files home from my office. Old junk. Tax records, bad-debt files.”

Franklin nods patiently, but her jaw is set. “Then you won’t mind if these officers take them down to my chambers for safekeeping. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding, but it’ll save you the trouble of hauling away the ashes.”

Leo blocks the door with his considerable bulk, his arms outstretched from post to post. “Eunice, I think you and I should have a private word.”

Franklin glances at the video camera. “Turn that off, Ms. Masters.”

“I’m sorry, Judge, but the First Amendment of the Constitution guarantees my right to do what I am doing now.”

Judges do not react well to defiance. Eunice Franklin reddens a shade, and for a moment I fear she is about to order Caitlin’s arrest. To my surprise, she turns to Marston and says, “Clear that door, Leo.”

Marston’s hard blue eyes lock onto Franklin’s. “Eunice, you’d better think about what—”

“Officer Washington,” she cuts in, “go in there and confiscate whatever files you find. Take them straight to my chambers.”

Two cops push past Marston, whose only choices are to stand aside or defy the orders of a judge by assaulting police officers. He stands aside, his face red with fury. Eunice Franklin will pay a heavy price for this, but my sympathy is limited. Dilemmas like these are the price of backroom politics. With a final savage glare in my direction, Marston stomps back into the dark reaches of his mansion.

Judge Franklin pokes me in the chest, her eyes cold. “I want you in my chambers at nine a.m., mister.” She points to Caitlin. “I want that videotape there as well.”

“Will Marston be there?” I ask.

“That’s not your concern.”

“Destroying evidence is a felony, Judge.”

Franklin’s lips tighten until all I can see is the spiderwork of lines around her mouth, the result of years of smoking cigarettes. As we stare at each other, a patrolwoman carries a charred box of files through the front door.

“Go home, Mr. Cage,” orders Judge Franklin. “And you will pay restitution for any physical damage to this property.”

I am about to follow her advice when Livy walks through the front door of Tuscany. In a voice that could shave a peach, she says, “Judge, my name is Livy Marston Sutter. I’m here as counsel for my father, Leo Marston. Those boxes contain files of Marston, Sims clients, and thus enjoy the protection of attorney-client privilege.”

Judge Franklin is momentarily taken aback, but she recovers quickly. “They’ll be as safe in my chambers as they will anywhere.”