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appearing in her courtroom just in time to intimidate the state’s main witness, another of the clan who hadn’t been able to live with her conscience and who’d been promised immunity from prosecution in return for her testimony. But the thugs in the courtroom got their message across—the woman suddenly couldn’t remember witnessing any of the defendants sprinkling salt on anything. Now it seemed possible that these heartless killers were going to go free.
     
     
    When Judge Braun’s bailiff came to her chambers and told her that Scott Randall had a contempt citation for her at the end of her already lousy day, she grabbed her robes, breathing fire, and strode impatiently through the hallways to the grand jury room.
     
     
    “No, ma’am. As Mr. Randall has explained to you, you don’t have a choice unless you’re claiming a Fifth Amendment right. But you’ve told me that your testimony will not incriminate yourself, which rules out that option. You’ve got to tell him what you know.”
     
     
    Frannie Hardy shook her head. This had been going on for so long that all her patience was used up. “I can’t believe this is the United States.” Her eyes scanned the faces of the jurors, went to Scott Randall, finally rested on Marian Braun. “What’s the matter with all you people? You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Don’t you have any real lives? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
     
     
    This line of discourse turned out to be a tactical error. Judge Braun wasn’t about to have the validity of her life and work called into question by some nobody witness. She snapped out her reply. “First, in this room you address me as Your Honor. Next, as to doing something wrong, you are refusing to cooperate in the investigation of a murder case. Like it or not, that’s a crime. Now for the last time, young lady, you answer the question or you go to jail.”
     
     
    “I’m not your young lady.” A pause. “Ma’am.”
     
     
    Braun slapped at the table. “All right, then, I’m ordering you held in the county jail until you decide to answer Mr. Randall’s questions.” Judge Braun half turned. “Bailiff ...”
     
     
    But Frannie was on her feet now, her voice raised, color high. “You want to talk contempt? I hold you in contempt. God help the system if you cretins are running it.”
     
     
    Braun’s steely gaze came back to her. “You just got yourself four days before this grand jury citation even starts to run. You want more, young lady, just keep talking. Bailiff.”
     
     
    The guard came forward.
     

 
    4
     
     
    Hardy got Frannie’s call at six-twenty and made the half-hour drive downtown to the Hall of Justice in seventeen minutes. On the way, he stopped fuming long enough to think to call Abe Glitsky on his car phone, see if he could work some magic. The county jail and the Hall of Justice were on the same lot. Maybe Glitsky could get the ball rolling.
     
     
    But the lieutenant was waiting for him by the back door of the Hall, at the entrance to the jail. He wasn’t wearing his happy face.
     
     
    Hardy came up at a jog, slacks and shirtsleeves, no coat, knowing before he asked. “She still in there? She really in there?” Though he never doubted she was. This wasn’t the kind of funny birthday prank Frannie was likely to pull on him.
     
     
    “Yep.”
     
     
    Barely slowing, Hardy swore and turned in toward the jail’s entrance. Glitsky reached and caught his sleeve, stopping him. “Hey!”
     
     
    “Let me go, Abe. I’m getting her out of there.”
     
     
    “Not without a judge you’re not. I couldn’t.” When Glitsky let go of his arm he stayed put, glaring in the dusk. The night had turned windy and cold. The lawyer in him knew that his friend was right—it wasn’t a matter of summoning some patience. They had to find a judge, the night magistrate, somebody. To facilitate nighttime warrants and other late business, the judges rotated magistrate duty so