We rode the elevator up in silence, the heavy steel cables groaning behind the walls.

The air in the seventeenth-floor hallway smelled of floor wax, old paper, and wet raincoats.

Martin Voss was standing near the heavy oak doors of Courtroom 1704.

He looked immaculate, his charcoal suit dry and pressed, though his leather briefcase rested on the bench beside him like a shield.

“Avery,” Voss said, stepping forward as the elevator doors slid open.

“Did you file it?” I asked, stopping a few feet from him.

“It is done,” Voss said. “The formal motion to withdraw has been submitted to the clerk. The exhibits are being uploaded to the docket as we speak.”

He tapped the latch on his briefcase, and it clicked open.

“I kept a hard copy for the judge,” he added. “The crime-fraud exception is airtight.”

The heavy double doors of the courtroom swung inward, and the bailiff gestured for us to enter.

The courtroom was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning.

Judge Elaine Mallory sat at her high wooden bench, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she reviewed a tablet.