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signs of Reeder’s Secret Service career, with the exception of a single framed Time magazine cover with the famous photograph of the agent taking a bullet for the president he despised. Reeder had been pressured to display it because prospective clients needed the reminder of just whose services they were enlisting. He had positioned it on the wall where he couldn’t see the goddamn thing from his desk.
    Sunlight flooded through the window, and he hit a wall switch, activating a motorized curtain that slowly drew the room to darkness. Muted overhead lights came on as Reeder dropped into his oversize tufted-leather desk chair, the one real indulgence he allowed himself at work.
    He booted his computer, then opened his e-mail and loaded the video Bishop had sent. Pushing a button, he got the image up on the wall monitor. He watched the holdup men enter and go into their routine; he fast-forwarded until he saw Venter fall. Then he backed up the footage to watch from a couple minutes before the perps entered.
    The view from the rear faced the bar. Venter and his clerk, Blount, were at the far left of the frame, other tables of customers nearby. He couldn’t zoom in to get a better view of the pair, but even from this wide perspective, it was clear that, despite the social setting, the Associate Justice and his clerk were having a serious if cordial talk.
    Paying no attention to the others in the room, Reeder concentrated on the two men. Venter reacted first, eyes widening to look toward the bar, followed by his clerk’s head turning—the younger man sitting with his back nearly to the intruders.
    Though concentrating on Venter and Blount, Reeder remained aware that the other diners were reacting, as well. One nearby customer stood, then—on what was probably an order from one of the robbers—sat immediately back down.
    Despite the lack of sound, Reeder could tell exactly what was going on. The thieves were doing all the talking, the gist of what they were saying easily discerned.
    Slowly, the holdup man with the pistol made his way around the bar collecting valuables from the customers, working inexorably toward Venter and Blount.
    As the holdup man approached, Blount was looking back at the other perp. When the kid turned, the pistol was aimed between his eyes, the young clerk’s terror obvious. As Blount fumbled for his wallet or maybe his cell, Venter rose, but before the judge got fully to his feet, the gunman swiveled, set his feet, and fired. Justice Venter went down, the room erupted in panic, and the shooter paused to pistol-whip Blount, knocking the clerk to the floor. Then the two gunmen exited the way they’d come in.
    Bishop had tagged footage from an outside camera onto the tail of the clip, showing the ski-masked intruders sprint out and climb into a black SUV parked at the curb, front and back seat. The driver could not be seen, the SUV’s windows tinted. Then the vehicle eased away as nonchalantly as if those within had just enjoyed a good meal at the famed Verdict. No view of the license plates.
    Reeder watched the security footage at regular speed several more times. Then he slowed it down, going frame by frame, starting from Blount seeing the pistol in his face through where Venter rose. Venter’s hips were turning slightly to the left, toward the fire door, not the gunman.
    The Associate Justice was rising not to attack, but to make a break for it.
    Reeder stopped the video, reran it, then watched the Justice again. Based on Venter’s expression, his overall body language, Reeder had no doubt: Venter was trying to save his ass, not his clerk.
    The judge had panicked, and was going for that fire exit.
    The next time he watched, Reeder concentrated on the shooter. As the man turned and blasted Venter, he was calm, not panicky, and took time to set his feet and aim. Hell, the shooter even slowly exhaled before he fired. This wasn’t a stickup artist reacting to movement, freaking, and