I keep walking, though now there is a steady drip of adrenaline on my heart. Harvey has been talking to the prosecutors or the cops. You can build a gag order, but you can never fill all the little crevices that leak. Trying to undo the damage later is like bailing a flood from a broken levy with a bucket. If Harvey reports the kidnap rumor and the fact that the state has witnesses, it will be all over the media by tomorrow morning. Talking heads will be using it as a teaser to keep viewers tuned in between the commercials. Even with the jury impaneled and the judge having instructed them not to read or watch news concerning the case, this information, blaring from every cable network and sliding past on the electronic ticker tape running under the pictures, is a virtual certainty to reach them. If they believe that Arnsberg had any plan for Scarborough, whether kidnapping or killing, they’ll be leaning so far toward conviction that they’ll topple like dominoes the first time they climb into the jury box.

“See you on the way out,” says Harvey.

Smidt can be relentless. I will ask the judge to let me out through the back corridor and hope the prosecutor takes the same route. I turn past the bench and down the hall. In the distance, ten feet away, I can see the judge’s clerk, Rudalgo Ruiz, sitting at his desk just inside the door to the judge’s anteroom.

Ruiz is known to courthouse staff as R2. Not because of the two R’s in his name. Instead this is short for R2-D2. Ruiz is short, built like a barrel, and bald. The only things missing are the wheels and the discordant bleeping tones for communication. Though in some sense it would be preferable to what he has to say to me this morning. It is blunt and to the point. “They’re waiting for you,” he says. This from under black, furrowed brows, the only wisps of hair he has on his head. “I called you three times. Dun you have a secretary?”

I look at my watch-9:48. “My calendar said ten o’clock.”

“Judge bumped it up this morning.” Ruiz says this with adamancy. “Nine-thirty.” He taps the crystal on his wristwatch like maybe the judge can issue an order to make time go in reverse.

“On the second day, God shortened the hour,” I tell him.

He shakes his head at this blasphemy, then smiles, but only a little. “You better get your ass in there.” He nods toward chambers, where the door is open just a crack. I can hear voices inside, some muffled laughter.

I tap on the door.

“Come on in.” A booming voice.

I swing the door open and am greeted by the raised eyebrows of his eminence Judge Plato Quinn. Quinn has been on the superior court for more than two decades. A graduate of the D.A.’s office, he spent the first ten years of his legal career prosecuting major felonies and is not particularly beloved among the defense bar, though this is not all bad. Quinn is a man highly sensitive of his reputation. At times he will bend over backward to dispel any hint that he might carry water for the prosecution.

“I take it you don’t have a clock?” he says.

“Your clerk says I need a new secretary,” I tell him.

“Anything to bring you into the modern age.” The judge glances under the edge of my suit coat, looking for the telltale pouch on my belt.

I lift my coat a little, making it easier for him to visually frisk me.

“Only lawyer I know doesn’t own a cell phone,” he says.

At the moment my cell phone is in my briefcase.

“My having lost three of them going through security downstairs, the phone company wants my daughter as collateral to get another,” I tell him. “They tell me the last one I lost is still making phone calls long-distance from Beirut.”

As I close the door, I see the D.A., Bob Tuchio, seated on the couch, as if he were playing hide-and-seek behind the swinging door. “Your cell carrier should cut off services,” he says.

“It’s a two-year plan. They don’t like to lose the business,” I tell him.

He smiles, a dark eminence. Tuchio has eyes like two black olives, and a five o’clock shadow an hour after he shaves. His complexion is something from the heel of the boot in Italy. He is intense in court, but not emotional, at least not so that the unschooled eye would notice.

“Okay, so we wasted twenty minutes,” says Quinn. “I’ll take it out of your opening statement.” He looks at me and winks. “I gather that the two of you know each other?”

“We’ve never been formally introduced,” says Tuchio, “but I know Mr. Madriani by reputation.”

“Then it looks like you’re in trouble.” The judge regards me and smiles.

Tuchio rises from the couch and in a single smooth gesture closes the center button on his suit coat and offers me his hand. We shake.

Tuchio is a shade under six feet, slender, a cipher by way of demeanor. Power suits, this morning a dark blue worsted, flatter his lean frame. The chief deputy district attorney of this county for more than a decade, it is rumored that he is “D.A.-in-waiting,” until his boss retires, which is supposed to be next year. Tuchio’s only weakness may be what he can’t see. He is known unaffectionately behind his back by much of the defense bar as “Bob the Tush,” not so much because of the size of his behind as for its motion when the man gets wound up in court. He has acquired a kind of circular gyration as he speaks, this to offset the movement of his hands. If you cuffed his wrists, it would transform him to a mute. It is said, though I have not seen this, that when he gets up to speed, he can rattle his ass like a washing machine on spin cycle with the load out of balance. Unfortunately for many who have witnessed this, there may be a kind of mesmerizing effect to it, for it usually comes on closing argument just before the opposing counsel’s client goes down for the count. Tuchio has a conviction rate of better than 96 percent. He hasn’t lost a case in more than five years, though as chief deputy he can pick and choose his shots.

That he has selected Arnsberg to prosecute is not a good sign for our side. Tuchio will be heavily invested in the case, particularly on the eve of his rise to power. The last thing he needs is a loss under the glare of television lights as a prelude to his coronation.

“I thought it would be good if we all sat and talked. Sit down.” Quinn gestures with his hands toward the two client chairs across from his tufted throne on the other side of his massive mahogany desk. This is littered with files, one of which is ours. The judge slides this toward him, opens the cover, and begins to look at notes that he has apparently made for this meeting.

We sit, Tuchio to the right, me to the left.

“I don’t want any misunderstandings when we get to court,” says the judge. What Quinn means when he says we should talk is that he will do the talking and we will do the listening.

“First order of business,” he says. “I don’t want any gamesmanship. I know that the stakes are high here. A lot of the media is watching. That doesn’t mean a goddamn thing as far as I’m concerned. They already asked for cameras in the courtroom. I already said no.”

Quinn looks at me as if this were a major concession for which he is now free to plant land mines in the courtroom with some roadside bomb for the defense.

“Gag order is in effect, as you both know,” he tells us.

“That’s good, Your Honor, because someone has already violated it,” I tell him.

“What are you talking about?”

I tell him about Smidt outside in his courtroom asking questions about witnesses and theories of the case to which only those who are trying it and their agents are privy.

The judge’s gaze has not even fallen on him, and Tuchio is already in denial mode. “Didn’t come from my office. I issued a memo last week. Anyone violating your order will be fired and prosecuted. And I mean it.”

This is the boilerplate that is issued in every case where the media operatives are digging for dirt. It may as well be printed on little squares of toilet tissue for all the good it does.