Miller let out a long, shuddering breath, his head resting back against the headrest. "That's good," he whispered. "That's real good."
By one-fifteen in the afternoon, the sleek granite and limestone towers of downtown Macon rose above the horizon.
The William Augustus Bootle Federal Building and United States Courthouse sat in the historic heart of the city—a massive, neoclassical stone monument with sweeping steps, towering limestone columns, and the Great Seal of the United States carved twenty feet tall above the bronze entry portals.
As our convoy turned onto Mulberry Street, the scene outside the courthouse resembled a political convention under military guard.
Dozens of television broadcast vans with hydraulic microwave masts lined both sides of the street. Reporters in tailored suits stood with microphones before cameras, their voices buzzing in competing cacophonies of breaking news. Hundreds of spectators—civil rights advocates, local citizens, law students from Mercer University, and curious onlookers—were held back behind yellow police tape by uniformed federal protective officers.
"Keep your heads down until we clear the underground sally port," Calloway commanded over the tactical radio as the lead Suburban steered down the concrete ramp into the subterranean basement of the federal courthouse.
The heavy steel security gate rolled down behind us with a resonant, mechanical clank, shutting out the roar of the media and the sweltering heat of the Macon streets.
We stepped out into the cool, echoey concrete basement.
Waiting for us near the secure elevator bank was a tall, immaculate man in his early fifties, wearing a sharp charcoal three-piece suit, a burgundy silk tie, and silver-rimmed glasses.
Marcus Sterling. The United States Attorney for the Middle District of Georgia.
Sterling didn't waste time with formal pleasantries. He walked directly toward us, his hand extended to take my uninjured right hand in a firm, respectful grip.
"Judge Whitlock," Sterling said, his eyes immediately assessing the black sling and the heavy fiberglass cast. "Chief Judge Brennan told me what happened. On behalf of the Department of Justice, I cannot begin to express our fury at the violence you were subjected to. How is the arm?"
"It will heal in six weeks, Marcus," I replied. "The law in Pell County has been broken for twelve years. That is the injury we need to focus on today."
Sterling’s jaw hardened, a sharp, approving light gleaming behind his spectacles. "We are ready. The magistrate, Judge Evelyn Vance—no relation to the defense counsel who bolted this morning, thank God—has convened the initial appearance docket for exactly two o’clock. Dalton Voss’s new counsel, appointed by the federal defender’s office after Vance withdrew, is currently reviewing the charging documents in the holding cells."
"What are the charges on the unsealed docket?" I asked as we stepped into the private judicial elevator, the heavy brass doors sliding shut.
Sterling withdrew a twenty-page legal filing from his leather portfolio. "Sixteen counts total, Amara. Count One: Conspiracy against rights under Title 18, Section 241. Count Two: Deprivation of rights under color of law resulting in bodily injury—that’s your assault at the diner. Counts Three through Ten: Wire fraud and honest services fraud relating to the Pinecrest land auctions. Counts Eleven through Fourteen: Extortion under color of official right under the Hobbs Act. And Count Fifteen: Tampering with a federal witness by physical force, relating to the hit squad sent to your aunt’s residence last night."
"And Mrs. Hattie Greene?" I asked, my voice dropping.
Sterling met my eyes with unblinking gravity as the elevator smoothly ascended to the third floor. "Count Sixteen. Deprivation of civil rights resulting in death. It carries a statutory maximum of life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, or the death penalty. We are seeking life without parole."
The elevator chimed softly.
The doors parted to reveal the polished marble corridors of the federal judicial chambers—quiet, cool, smelling of beeswax, old books, and the profound, immovable majesty of federal law.
"Caleb," Sterling said, turning to the young former deputy. "Assistant U.S. Attorney Myers is waiting for you in Conference Room B. We need your signature on the formal verification affidavit for the blue notebook. The grand jury is waiting to review the original ledger."
Miller looked at me one last time. "Thank you, Judge Whitlock."
"Go do your duty, Caleb," I told him gently. "Tell the whole truth, and fear nothing."
He nodded, turning to follow a young federal prosecutor down the wide hall.
Sterling then turned to me. "Amara, you do not have to be inside Courtroom 3 for the initial appearance. Under the Crime Victims' Rights Act, you have an absolute statutory right to be present, but given your judicial office, Chief Judge Brennan was concerned that your presence in the well might create unnecessary appellate issues regarding judicial prejudice."
"I have no intention of sitting in the well, Marcus," I said, adjusting the lapel of my black suit jacket over the edge of the sling. "I will not speak. I will not make an application to the court. But I will be in that room. I will sit in the third row of the public gallery, dressed in the suit I wore to the county seat, and I will let Dalton Voss look upon the woman he called a 'nobody' who would never see daylight again."
Sterling stared at me for three seconds, then a faint, grim smile touched his lips.
"The third row is reserved for you, Your Honor," he said.
At one-fifty-five, I walked through the double leather doors of Courtroom 3.
The courtroom was vast, lined with towering walnut paneling, velvet-cushioned benches, and soaring twenty-foot ceilings crowned with bronze chandeliers. The gallery was already packed to capacity with reporters from every major national news outlet—CNN, the Associated Press, the Washington Post—their pens poised over legal notepads.