71

Paige just wanted to stay curled up in her bed all day. She hit the snooze button three times. She stayed in that half-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness, her thoughts a tangled web of defiance, resignation, and dread. Images flashed through her groggy mind. A pack of reporters asking questions. An angry Judge Solberg. Marshals escorting her off to prison. She prayed and summoned her resolve for the day ahead.

By the time she got ready for the day, she was running behind and had to skip breakfast and fight aggressively through the interstate traffic, tailgating every slow driver who blocked her way as if by force of will she could make them speed up. She hit the parking lot at 8:45, and court started at nine. She knew there would be a crazy-long line at the metal detectors and that she would need to elbow her way to the front, explaining that she was one of the lawyers involved in the Anderson case, as if that gave her a free pass. She would ignore the harsh, condemning stares of the people behind her.

Walking quickly, her heels clicking against the pavement, she turned the corner on Granby Street and found that the chaos outside the court building was even greater than she’d anticipated. The media had turned out in full force again, and soon they would come rushing her way, a herd of cameras and microphones and glammed-up reporters shouting questions. She had known this day was coming for two weeks, but she still wasn’t ready for it. This morning she had thrown her hair up in a messy bun, put on a light foundation with a little eye shadow, and nothing else. She had chosen an old black pin-striped suit. She was humble Paige today, a hardworking lawyer who needed a little sympathy from the court.

She kept her eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of her as she pushed her way through the media horde like a seasoned pro, lips pursed, ignoring every attempt to bait her into commenting. She managed to elbow to the front of the metal detector line, letting the snarky comments fall on deaf ears. After getting cleared, she hurried up the steps and took her place at counsel table just a few minutes before nine. Even Wyatt Jackson had arrived before her.

Landon Reed was in the front row, and she had a brief conversation with him before the hearing started. He had coached Paige to be respectful but firm when questioned by Judge Solberg. No, she had not leaked the deposition of Director Marcano. But with all due respect, she was not going to produce her computer. It contained client confidences and attorney work-product. An attorney’s first responsibility was to represent her client zealously, and Paige, though she would love to prove her innocence by turning over her computer, could not do so in this matter. If necessary, they had agreed to have Landon stand and introduce himself to the court and make arguments on her behalf. The less Paige said the better.

There was a chance, Paige knew, that she could actually get carted off to prison after this hearing. If she did, Landon would be ready to file an emergency appeal. But more likely, she and the rest of the team would be scolded and fined. She would hunker down, take it like a soldier, and hope that the media found something else to divert their attention in a few days.

On Paige’s advice, Kristen had not attended the hearing. There were no SEALs or their families in the first few rows. This was not going to be a good day for the plaintiff, and the fewer people who had to endure Judge Solberg’s tongue-lashing, the better.

On the other hand, the defense team had shown up in force, most likely to gloat. The lawyers were all there, including what seemed like fifteen attorneys from Dylan Pierce’s firm. Even the ultra-busy Philip Kilpatrick and John Marcano had somehow managed to put aside their important governmental duties to attend the dressing-down. They could hardly conceal their glee.

Just before Judge Solberg took the bench, Wyatt slid a piece of paper in front of Paige. “Sign this,” he said.

“What is it?” Paige asked.

“Read it. But make sure you sign it before I get up to talk.”

Paige was only halfway through the document when Judge Solberg blew into the courtroom. She was angry, and she made no effort to conceal it. Her face was drawn and tight, eyes darting around the courtroom. The marshal called the court to order, and Judge Solberg welcomed everyone with a terse “Be seated.”

The judge leaned forward on her elbows and, without greeting the lawyers, explained the reason that court had been convened. Her protective order had been violated. She had received a very thorough report from U.S. Attorney Mitchell Taylor, who was sitting in the second row on the defense side of the courtroom. She thanked him for his thoroughness and thanked the FBI agents who were also in attendance for their diligent work.

She spent a few minutes dictating portions of the report into the record while Paige sat grim-faced, staring at a spot in the well of the courtroom. Paige heard some whispering in the back and Judge Solberg must have heard it as well. Her head snapped up and she fixed a death stare on two people who were quietly talking to each other. Like the rest of the courtroom, Paige turned to look at them as they realized a second too late that the entire courtroom had gone quiet. They stopped talking and Judge Solberg let them have it.

“Quiet! If you have business to transact, do it out in the hallway.” She glared at the two men, whose faces were both turning red. “Do you two gentlemen understand that, or do I need to ask the marshals to escort you out?”

They both apologized and told Judge Solberg that they understood.

“Very well, then.” Judge Solberg went back to reading the report, and the courtroom was deathly quiet.

Wyatt leaned over to whisper in Paige’s ear, and she wanted to elbow him in the gut. “Her Honor seems a little testy today,” Wyatt said.

Paige gave him an almost-imperceptible nod. No way she was going to say a word. She was already in enough trouble as it was.

She finished reading the document in front of her, signed it, and slid it over to Wyatt.