And the missing lines… well, they could set the church back on its velvet-slippered heels! Since the pope claimed his title through Peter by apostolic succession, the pontiff and all before him would be no more than pretenders. Apparently someone already knew of those lines, someone like whoever had painted that picture in the Vatican, someone like… like the people who wanted him dead. The papers in his lap might have been the first the patriarch had seen that included those lines but they existed somewhere else, too. Or had existed. The question was, where? If he could ascertain who knew of Peter's wrath at being essentially demoted, he would have the answers he needed. There was, he supposed, a way to find out. But first, he had business back home. More important, he had a son he felt he hadn't seen in forever.
II.
United States District Court for the Middle District of Georgia
Macon, Georgia
Two Days Later
Courthouses, hospitals, prisons and other institutions trafficking in human suffering have a certain intimidating air about them. In the case of the former, this is not by accident. To induce apprehension if not outright fear is the first commandment of government. That is why judges wear black robes, like priests of some somber but powerful religion whose acolytes speak in mystical tongues, words like "hereinafter," "alleged" or "tort feasor." The courthouse lobby might be marred with some form that is "art" by the loosest of definitions, smears of color chosen by the lowest bid. An alternative might be a plaque commemorating someone or some event in most cases otherwise forgotten.
The courtrooms themselves are interchangeable. This is particularly true with the federal judiciary because the taxpayers who fund the cheerless decor are spread from Alaska to Florida rather than concentrated in a single county where local voters are likely to note and complain about excess.
Lang sat alone at counsel table, pondering who had decided the apricot carpeting went with the dark-stained wooden paneling. Who had been responsible for choosing the slime green plastic cushions that did little to mollify the painfully hard wooden chairs? He was convinced that somewhere in Washington, D.C. was a Bureau of Vile Taste, a permanent board that furnished federal courts and other places where justice was dispensed, or, just as often, dispensed with.
He turned at the sound of an opening door behind him.
A young man was wheeling into the room a small cart loaded with files, each of which was stuffed to the limit with papers. An assistant US attorney, no doubt. And a very junior one. Lang glanced back at the slim attaché case he had brought. Lawyers who worked for the government equated quantity with quality. Of course, so did many of their private-practice counterparts. If you generated enough paper, there was bound to be something good in there somewhere, right?
The young man parked his cart at the other counsel table and walked over, hand extended. "Sam Roads."
Lang stood and shook. "I bet they call you Dusty."
The assistant US attorney stopped in midshake. "How'd you know?"
"Same way I'd guess if your last name was Waters, you'd be called Muddy. I'm Lang Reilly."
The assistant US attorney smiled. "Coulda been 'Country.'"
Lang nodded. "Or 'State' or 'Federal' but it's always 'Dusty."'
Dusty eyed Lang's single attaché case and his grin faded into suspicion. "You have a reputation even this far from Atlanta."
Lang's turn to smile. "Calumnious lies, I swear."
Dusty wasn't so certain. "You ready?"
Before Lang could reply, the door opened again, this time admitting Larry Henderson with a burly US marshal on either side. Detention life didn't look like it agreed with him The man had lost a dozen or more pounds. His color was that ashlike complexion Lang associated with inmates of much longer duration. It was as if the gray of prisons' concrete walls rubbed off on those they contained. He wore a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit and a pair of leg shackles.
He smiled when he saw Lang, probably the first friendly face he had seen since Darleen's last visit. Lang felt a twinge of guilt. He guessed those visits had been limited during the time Manfred had been staying with her.
Larry's escorts moved to the courtroom's door and Larry hobbled toward counsel table.
Lang spoke cooly to the marshals. "The leg irons need to come off."
"Not till the judge comes in," growled one of them.
It was hardly a major issue, but Lang knew the importance of not acceding to the slightest infringement of clients' rights. Likewise, he was aware of jailers' tendency to intimidate their charges whenever possible. "The rules say restraints come off in the courtroom without a specific order to the contrary. Don't make me file a formal complaint."
The guard who had spoken before shot Lang a poisonous glare before producing a key and removing the shackles. Lang caught a satisfying whiff of a muttered, "Goddamn smart-ass Atlanta lawyer."
From her private entrance, the judge appeared on the bench like magic. Short blunt-cut steel gray hair, little if any makeup. Before sitting, she fluffed her robe, the sole feminine gesture she would make. Although he had never seen her in person, Lang had done his homework on Judge Linda Carver. Like all federal judges, she was a political appointee, this one from the Reagan administration. She had served as one of the then rare Republicans in both the state senate and house as well as vice chair of the Georgia Republican Party. Although never as important in the appointment process as the politics, her legal abilities were reflected in the fact she had been a partner in a major mid-Georgia law firm when female associates, let alone partners, had been rare. Even though her experience had been more in the boardroom than the courtroom, she had surprised a number of unwary lawyers with a knowledge of evidence, procedure and the other arcanum of the trial practice. She had a reputation of being fair but hard-assed, the description usually given to a judge who suffered fools poorly and the unprepared worse.
Judge Carver lowered half-moon glasses from her forehead and studied the papers in front of her before looking up. "You are Mr. Langford Reilly?"
Lang, still standing, nodded. "Guilty, Your Honor."
A trace of a smile flickered and disappeared across the judicial countenance. Score one small point for the good guys.
"Welcome to the middle district, Mr. Reilly. I understand you practice mainly in Atlanta."
Lang wasn't the only one who had done their homework.
"You have already met Mr. Roads, I see."
"Yes, ma'am."
She was still scanning the papers in front of her. "We are here today for a formal arraignment, plea and scheduling. Is that you gentlemen's understanding?"
"And application for bond, Your Honor," Lang added.
Roads was on his feet. "Your Honor, the defendant is charged with trafficking in narcotics, a serious felony…"
She silenced him with a frown and a cocked eyebrow. "Have a seat, Mr. Roads. It's customary to hear the defendant's plea before a bond application."
Flustered, the assistant US attorney sat back down and began thumbing through one of the file folders.
Judge Carver began reading the charges, a long, repetitious list of misdeeds and offenses. When she finished, she looked up. "How does the defendant plead?"
Lang was still standing. "Not guilty, Your Honor."
There was a tug at the back of his suit jacket. Larry had a question.
"May I confer with my client?" he asked the judge.
After receiving an affirmative nod, he knelt beside Larry.