“Do it now,” Callum said, and ended the call.

I stepped back into the shadow of a marble pillar as he turned toward the glass door.

He did not see me; his eyes were fixed on the floor, his breathing shallow.

A few yards away, the two men in dark suits from the lobby stepped off the service elevator.

One of them was speaking quietly into a small microphone pinned to his lapel.

The other man kept his eyes locked on Callum’s back as Callum walked toward the courtroom.

Arthur stepped up beside me, his face grim.

“The federal attorneys just filed a motion to intervene,” Arthur said, handing me a document.

“What is it?” I asked, looking at the stamped blue paper.

“A formal notification of a criminal investigation into witness tampering,” Arthur said.

“They have the phone logs, Avery.”

We entered the courtroom just as the bailiff called the session back to order.

The room smelled of old paper and furniture polish, the high windows showing a gray Chicago sky.

Vivian Prescott was already seated in the front row of the gallery.