"Court is adjourned. Counsel, you will remain in this room until the United States Attorney’s representative arrives to take your statement."
Corley sat down slowly in his chair. He did not touch his briefcase. He did not look at me. He sat staring at the green felt blotter on the counsel table, his hands open and motionless against the wood.
I turned and walked through the heavy swing-gate, out of the dark paneling of Department 14-B, and down the marble corridor toward the street exit. The afternoon sun had dropped behind the coastal ridge, bathing the bay in long, pale streaks of amber and violet.
A Port Authority patrol car was idling at the curb of the courthouse intake wing, its low-profile emergency beacons casting a rhythmic blue flash against the white stone pillars.
The rear passenger door opened.
Apollo stepped out onto the sidewalk. She was wearing her oversized gray wool sweater, the sleeves pulled down over her hands, her carry-on canvas duffel slung over her left shoulder. The red hospital bracelet was gone from her wrist, replaced by a simple white adhesive strip where the flight attendant had helped her secure her surgical bandage before landing.
She stopped at the foot of the courthouse steps, her eyes scanning the broad plaza until she caught sight of my coat.
She didn't run; the post-surgical sutures along her abdomen were still tender, keeping her steps short and measured. But she walked straight toward me, her chin lifted against the Pacific wind that came sweeping up the street from the harbor docks, carrying the clean, sharp smell of deep water and open sky.
When she reached the bottom step, she reached into the front pocket of her sweater and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of yellow carbon paper. It was the other half of the unmanifested cargo slip she had held against the double-paned window of seat 18B while the engines were idling on the Chicago tarmac eight hours ago.
"You found the printer," Apollo said, her voice slightly hoarse from the long cabin dry air, but completely steady.
"Reyes found the printer," I said, dropping to one knee on the granite step so we were eye to eye. "Miller found the gate pass. And Captain Ellis brought the plane to California."
She looked up at the stone portico of the courthouse, where the seal of the state was carved deep into the lintel, then down at the yellow paper in her hand. She did not crumple it or throw it away. She smoothed it carefully with her thumb, folded it into a tight, neat square, and slid it back into her pocket, beside her mother’s brass house key and the clean transit pass that carried her name.
"Is it done?" she asked.
"It’s done," I said. "The hearing is closed. The release is void. We're going home."
She nodded once, a brief, decisive movement that belonged to her mother, and took my arm as we walked together down the wide granite stairs toward the bay.
FINAL THANK-YOU NOTE
Thank you for making room for these pages today.