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test.”
    “Article 34.A of the new 2104 Interrogation Bill passed by the city council two weeks ago allows the lead investigator to override test results in the case of probable cause.”
    I stared at him, speechless.
    I was aware that the legislature had passed a law designed to add so-called teeth to the bill that had established Q.E.D. two years ago. But I hadn’t realized the “teeth” would be biting my rear end.
    “I’m innocent, Townsend,” I said. “If you’re going to abuse due process in the name of public safety, you ought to at least wait until you have a real criminal at your mercy.”
    His gray eyes glittered keenly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t consider the new law when you elected to face the Diva. Didn’t the public defender assigned to your case tell you that?”
    I hadn’t given him a chance, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Townsend. “No, he didn’t.”
    “That’s a pity.” Townsend’s lips turned up in a shadow of a smile. “Angel Baker, you are now officially charged with double homicide.”
    No question about it. The fat lady had sung, loud and clear.

Chapter 4
    Guilty Until Proven Innocent
     
    T he sun was coming up when I finally emerged from the Crypt under armed guard. We stood a moment at the discreet underground entrance, taking in the fresh air. A pink mist hovered over the lake to the east, and across the street coils of silver steam rose from the Chicago River, an entrenched waterway that snaked through the city, splitting it in two.
    Momentarily forgetting my troubles, I breathed in the glorious scent of city grime and baking pastries. A deli at the corner was about to open. Freshly brewed coffee wafted from the storefront’s vents. It was a little after 5:30 a.m. Rush hour was a noisy bubble about to burst. Meanwhile, the streets remained surprisingly tranquil. A light breeze picked up, and a little tornado of discarded papers and candy wrappers whirled around us, then rolled away, so much urban tumbleweed.
    God, I love this city , I thought, feeling a surge of affection that brought moisture to my eyes. Funny how the threat of imprisonment could make you appreciate even the downside of urban life.
    “There she is! Angel! Angel Baker!”
    Tensing, I looked to my left and saw a couple of television live trucks parked on the other side of the street. Several well-dressed reporters hurried toward me with photographers dressed in flak jackets and combat boots trailing after them, cameras mounted on their helmets, their wireless controls imbedded in their touch belts. The photographers looked as if they were ready for a war zone, which was a good description of some downtown streets they had to cruise on various news assignments. The reporters could hang back and do a live report on the set with the anchors, but the photogs had to dodge sniper fire and gang wars to get pictures for air.
    “Let’s get out of here,” I said to the cop gripping my right arm. He watched the approaching media without batting an eye.
    Suddenly feeling abused, I realized this journey down the block from the station to the criminal processing center had been arranged specifically so that the media could get me on camera. It was one of many ways the police and the media worked hand-in-hand. We could have taken the underground passageway between the center and P.S. #1, but then the reporters wouldn’t have gotten their all-important “pictures.”
    This was what my foster-brother Hank Bassett, a television producer, called “walking the suspect.” The police made sure suspects were paraded for the cameras. In return, the grateful press was more inclined to give cops favorable news coverage. There was nothing overtly unethical about the arrangement, but now that I was a suspect, it all smacked of collusion.
    The walking shot would then be used over and over againon the news as file footage whenever there were new developments in my case. I would be forever immortalized in newsroom