“They got him,” she said as soon as the elevator doors closed. “The marshals picked him up two blocks from the maternity ward. He had a packed duffel bag in his trunk.”

“Did he resist?” I asked.

“No,” Naomi said, looking at the floor indicator lights. “He folded the moment they showed the federal warrants. The prosecutor is waiting upstairs.”

We stepped out onto the eighth floor.

The hallway was lined with dark wood paneling and smelled of lemon polish and old carpet.

Two security guards stood outside a frosted glass door marked *Assistant U.S. Attorney*.

Inside, the conference room was bright and sterile, lit by humming fluorescent tubes.

Grant sat at the far end of a long mahogany table.

He wore a grey sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big for his frame.

His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red, and his hands were cuffed to a heavy metal ring set into the center of the table.

Beside him sat his defense attorney, a woman with tired eyes and a thick stack of manila folders.

At the head of the table sat federal prosecutor David Vance.