We arrived at the Everett McKinley Dirksen United States Courthouse on South Dearborn Street.

The building was a towering slab of black glass and steel, looking bleak under the heavy overcast sky.

Security guards cleared a path for us through the lobby, bypassing the metal detectors through an authorized side gate.

The elevator ride to the courtroom floor was silent, save for the mechanical hum of the cables.

When the doors slid open, the corridor was already crowded with reporters and sketch artists.

I saw Martin Voss standing near the heavy oak doors of the courtroom, his briefcase clutched in his hand.

He looked up and saw me, his face pale and drawn.

“Avery,” he said, stepping away from a group of junior associates.

“You shouldn’t be out of the hospital.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” I said, my voice steady.

“Where is Callum?”

Martin pointed toward a small consultation room down the hall.

Through the narrow vertical window of the door, I could see Callum pacing the floor.

His tie was loosened, his hair disheveled, and his face was flushed a dark, angry red.