District Attorney Wilson appeared beside Reed after the cameras stopped. Wilson was a man who preferred narrow ties and broad public statements, and he believed that prosecutors survived by cultivating good relationships with law enforcement leadership. He had known Reed for years, attended community fundraisers with him, and rarely challenged his officers in public. When a reporter asked about Olivia's legal status, he said the allegations would be reported to the appropriate professional authorities and that her office had placed her on administrative leave pending proceedings.
The distinction mattered, though few listeners noticed it. A district attorney could not simply cancel a lawyer's license in a press conference, but an employer could remove her from current cases, and a disciplinary complaint could cast a shadow over her ability to practice. By lunchtime, clients were calling the public defender's office asking whether Olivia had betrayed them. Elaine had to reassign hearings, arrange substitute counsel, and protect privileged files from police demands she believed were too broad.
One of Olivia's clients, a sixty-year-old mechanic named Mr. Bell, arrived carrying a folder of receipts that proved he had been at work during the time of an alleged burglary. He stood in the reception area and asked whether Olivia would still attend his hearing. Elaine explained that another attorney would represent him, but he stared at the floor as though somebody had taken away the only person who understood his case. "She believed me before anyone bothered to ask where I was," he said quietly.
That afternoon Maya sat in the front row of Courtroom Three for Olivia's initial appearance. The courtroom was almost full, partly because Olivia was well known, partly because the police had encouraged reporters to attend, and partly because people were curious to see a public defender standing where defendants usually stood. Olivia entered under escort in county-issued clothing, her wrists restrained in front of her. Maya was prepared for fear, but the sight of her sister searching the gallery nearly broke her composure.
Olivia found her at once. They held each other's gaze for less than a second, and Maya saw a familiar expression: the one Olivia wore before she questioned an unfriendly witness. It said she was frightened, aware of the cost, and determined to listen carefully. Maya opened her notebook to give her hands something to do.
Judge Howard Grant took the bench without looking toward the audience. He was fifty-nine, neatly groomed, and possessed of a genial public manner that turned cold whenever a defendant questioned the state's account. Olivia had appeared before him many times, sometimes successfully and sometimes in proceedings that left her wondering why the burden of proof seemed to move whenever police conduct became an issue. Grant and Reed belonged to the same country club, though mere social acquaintance was not evidence of misconduct.