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that there would be one judge on call every evening.
     
     
    Even as Hardy said, “Where’s Braun?” he was moving again, toward the Hall, Glitsky on his heels.
     
     
    But though they had no trouble getting by the night guard and into the building, after they took the stairs to the second floor they couldn’t get into the area of the judges’ chambers, which were behind the courtrooms. Hardy banged on doors all the way down the hallway. No answer.
     
     
    A clerk, working late in one of the rooms, opened her door and poked her head out. “It’s closed up back there. Everybody’s gone home.”
     
     
    Hardy kicked the door and the sound echoed off the walls. Then, suddenly, just as they turned to head back downstairs, the door opened. “What’s all this goddamn racket?”
     
     
    Leo Chomorro wasn’t Hardy’s favorite judge, although he was glad enough to see him now. It didn’t appear to be mutual—Chomorro was scowling. Then, noticing Glitsky, he nodded more genially. “Evening, Lieutenant. What’s going on here?”
     
     
    Glitsky laid it out in a few words. They needed a judge to vacate a contempt citation and get Hardy’s wife out of jail.
     
     
    “Your wife? ”
     
     
    “Yes, Your Honor. There’s been some kind of screwup.”
     
     
    Chomorro’s scowl deepened. “What was she doing down here? She’s not an attorney, too, is she?”
     
     
    “No. She got called before the grand jury and the next thing she knew she was in jail.”
     
     
    Chomorro looked like he wanted to ask some more questions, but he’d heard the magic words—grand jury— and knew nobody was allowed to discuss anything about its proceedings. They’d already told him the charge was contempt, though—he might pursue that. “Who issued the citation?” he asked warily.
     
     
    “Marian Braun,” Glitsky said.
     
     
    Making a face and no promises, Chomorro got a few more details, then finally said he’d put in a call to Braun, get some answers if he could. But he told them they shouldn’t expect much—any communication about grand jury proceedings was prohibited. If they wanted to wait . . .
     
     
    Glitsky stayed with the judge, but Hardy decided he had to see Frannie.
     
     
    He’d been to the jail dozens of times and knew the routine, so within minutes he was in the attorneys’ visiting room, waiting for his wife.
     
     
    He hadn’t really prepared himself. With other clients, he made it a point to pre-visualize their entrance into this room. It was often the first time he would see them in the jail’s orange jumpsuit, and the reality of someone he’d known in civilian life dressed for the slammer was always something of a shock.
     
     
    In this case, the first sight was more on the order of a physical assault. Frannie, always petite, looked positively gaunt. In the room’s institutional glare, his wife’s cheeks were ghostly—the washed-out, faded yellow-gray of ancient paste. Her beautiful red hair already had lost its luster and now hung flat and drab.
     
     
    A glance reconnected them and they crossed to each other, nearly falling into an embrace. Frannie clung to him, her face buried in her chest, repeating “Thank God, thank God,” over and over.
     
     
    He held her.
     
     
    Finally, their hands enfolded on the table, they began to get to it, Frannie trying to explain away the subpoena, the fact that she hadn’t told him about it. “I didn’t think it was anything—that’s why.”
     
     
    Hardy shook his head. This wasn’t tracking right. “No,” he said, “you thought it was something, Frannie. If you thought it was nothing, you would have told me about it. You would have said, ‘I got this subpoena today to go testify in front of the grand jury. I wonder what it’s all about.’ Instead, you kept it to yourself.” She was silent, biting at her lower lip. After a minute, Hardy prompted her. “Frannie?”
     
     
    “All right,” she admitted.
     
     
    “All right,