"They want to talk," he told her. She was in chambers, standing beside a window that overlooked the courthouse steps. A delivery truck was double-parked below, and two pedestrians argued amiably over who had reached a crosswalk first.
The ordinary scene steadied her. She asked what changed. Marcus said that the evidence was now strong enough to make the risks visible in a way the city could no longer dismiss, but that the decision to settle would still be hers. Gloria looked at the folded paper on her desk and said she wanted the meeting arranged.
The weekend before mediation was quieter than she expected. James persuaded her to attend church with him on Sunday, and they sat in the third pew where they had sat for nineteen years. She sang hymns she had known since childhood, spoke with two elderly friends about the garden, and accepted a container of sweet potato pie without asking for the recipe. For a little while, nobody asked about Finch or Fairfield or the number of people who had seen her name online. Afterward, she and James walked slowly to their car beneath trees just beginning to show autumn color.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," James said, "come home afterward. Not to a press conference. Not to your office. Home."
She promised him she would. It was a small promise, but the fact that he felt he needed to ask reminded her how much the case had occupied their marriage. She looked at the church doors and thought of the people who had stood there after the listening meeting carrying complaints they had once believed no one would read. She wanted the settlement to leave a door open for them as well.
The mediation office occupied the twelfth floor of a building six blocks from the courthouse. Its windows overlooked downtown Claremont, where buses moved along narrow streets and people waited outside a bakery with paper cups in their hands. Inside, the conference room was quiet and air-conditioned, with a long mahogany table polished until the overhead lights reflected across it. Gloria arrived with James and Marcus shortly after nine. The city's legal team had already taken seats along one side, their binders arranged in careful stacks.
Carla Hutchins stood when Gloria entered. She was an experienced municipal attorney with sharp eyes and a manner that conveyed neither friendliness nor hostility until she had assessed the person across from her. Gloria knew the type. Hutchins had defended governments through complicated cases, some meritless and others deeply troubling, and she had the unpleasant task of explaining hard facts to officials who sometimes wanted reassurance more than advice. Gloria did not assume Hutchins personally approved of the arrest. The lawyer represented a client, and this room existed because the client now understood the costs of continuing.