Mr. Warren turned to Marcus. That's unusual. Did something happen? Marcus couldn't speak. His throat had closed up completely.
Marcus, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. I know him. Marcus managed to choke out. What?
You know the judge? Not exactly. I Marcus ran a hand over his face. It's complicated. Before he could explain, the bailiff approached their table.
Mr. Reed. Marcus looked up. The judge would like to see you in his chambers. Victoria's head snapped around. Excuse me.
On what grounds? Just Mr. Reed, the bailiff said firmly. Davidson was on his feet immediately. Your honor, I mean this is highly irregular. We object to any private conversation between the judge and opposing counsel's client.
The judge didn't ask for your opinion, counselor. The bailiff's voice was stone. Mr. Reed, please follow me. Marcus stood on legs that felt like they might give out at any moment. Mr. Warren grabbed his arm.
Whatever he asks you, be honest. Don't try to be clever, just honest. Do you understand? Marcus nodded. Go.
He followed the bailiff through a side door down a narrow hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced judges from decades past and stopped in front of an oak door with a brass name plate on and Harrison Caldwell. The bailiff knocked once, then opened the door. Mr. Reed, your honor. Thank you. That will be all.
Marcus stepped inside and the door closed behind him. The judge's chambers were smaller than Marcus had expected. Woodpaneled walls lined with law books, a heavy desk covered in files and papers, two leather chairs facing it. A window looked out over the city, gray morning light filtering through half-closed blinds. Judge Caldwell stood by that window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at something only he could see.
"Sit down, Mr. Reed," he said without turning around. Marcus sat. The leather chair creaked under his weight. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Marcus could hear his own heartbeat loud as a drum in the quiet room.
Then the judge turned. His face was unreadable. That same stern expression he'd worn on the bench. But there was something else there, too. Something Marcus couldn't quite identify.
Three nights ago, Judge Caldwell said slowly, "My daughters called me from a hotel. They were stranded on Highway 89 in the middle of a terrible storm. Their car had broken down and they'd been standing in the rain for over an hour." He paused. No one stopped.