Their red and blue strobe lights flashed against the white stone facade of the mansion.

The wet leaves on the oak trees glistened in the flashing light.

This was the hour when the neighborhood began to wake up.

The wrought-iron security gates at the end of the driveway were locked open.

The sound of the sirens and the arrival of the federal convoy had already drawn attention.

A silver Mercedes sedan slowed to a crawl at the end of the driveway.

I recognized the driver.

It was Richard Sterling, a federal judge who lived three doors down.

He leaned forward, his face illuminated by the green glow of his dashboard lights.

He stared through his side window at the federal agents on the lawn.

Patricia was led down the stone steps of the porch.

She saw the Mercedes.

She stopped dead on the wet gravel.

“Richard!” she screamed.

Her voice was shrill, cutting through the damp air.

The agent on her left tried to guide her forward. “Keep moving, ma’am.”

Patricia twisted her body with sudden, frantic strength.

Her silk robe caught on the side mirror of a parked SUV.