"You can tell Sam not to worry. There's nothing incriminating here."

Rachel wonders if Cynthia meant to include herself among the things in the apartment that wouldn't potentially hurt Aaron.

"Are you sure?" Rachel asks. "Have you searched his clothes for blood? His e-mails? His phone for texts? Anything linking him in any way to Judge Nichols?"

"Yes. There's nothing. Believe me. Aaron thought he was so clever that I would never know about them, but a wife always knows . . ."

Rachel wants to ask Cynthia what that means but decides that now is not the time to cross-examine her. Cynthia Littman needs to be contained. G.o.d forbid she wanders downstairs drunk and starts talking to the press about Aaron's cheating ways.

"Cynthia, here's what I'd like to do. If it's okay with you, I'd like to stay here tonight. In the morning, we can talk more about what the next steps are going to look like, but right now, I suggest that you go lie down and try to get some sleep."

Cynthia squints at Rachel, seemingly uncertain of what to make of the offer to babysit. "I'm glad she's dead . . . you know that? I don't deny it. How could I? That b.i.t.c.h deserved to die."

After making this sweeping p.r.o.nouncement, Cynthia Littman stands up and walks to the bedroom.

39.

Booking is one of those things that defendants do alone. Not completely, of course, as the FBI agents conduct the process and stand guard during it, but the suspect is denied the presence of counsel.

Aaron wonders if Sam Rosenthal made the request that he himself made a thousand times: to stay with his client through the booking process. Not that it matters. If Rosenthal did, Agent Lacey would have given him the same answer Aaron had heard each time: no.

Aaron's escorted down a long corridor, turning into a room with the acronym JABS on the door. A sign in the room spells it out-JOINT AUTOMATED BOOKING SYSTEM.

The JABS room is ten by ten with battleship-gray walls. A machine occupies the center of the room with chairs on either side of it. For a moment Aaron thinks it might be a polygraph, but then he realizes it's a high-tech fingerprint machine. The only other things in the room are a sink and a three-foot bench with a metal bar behind it on the wall, the kind you might see in a handicapped shower stall.

The youngest of the three agents, the one who read Aaron his rights in the SUV, unlocks Aaron's right handcuff and reattaches it to the metal bar. He's identified himself as George Kostopolous, and Aaron figures he's no more than thirty. Everything about him screams meathead-his thick neck, shaved head, and suit that pulls across his pumped-up physique.

"I'll do the pedigree," Kostopolous calls out. He reaches into the single drawer under the table upon which the computer sits, and then turns to Agent Lacey and asks, "Is he a safekeeper?"

Aaron doesn't know what the term means. He's tempted to ask but resists, reasoning that his questions should be reserved for moments when the answers really matter.

"Yeah. I'll work the phones," Lacey says, and then leaves the room.

Kostopolous pulls up a metal chair so that he's beside the bench where Aaron sits cuffed to the bar. "Okay," he says, "I'm going to ask you some questions, and even though you've been Mirandized, you need to answer truthfully." He doesn't wait for an acknowledgment before he begins. The first question Kostopolous answers himself: "Name . . . Littman, Aaron." He looks back at Aaron. "You got a middle name?"

Aaron's initial reaction is to refuse to respond. He could say something like, I invoke my rights against self-incrimination. When my counsel is present, he may choose to instruct me to provide fuller responses. There's no doubt that's the answer he'd advise a client to give.

Aaron doesn't take his own advice. "Lewis," he mutters.

"Lewis," Kostopolous repeats. "Date of birth?"

"July eleven, nineteen sixty-four."

Kostopolous scribbles it down. "Seven-eleven," he says, as if it's meaningful.

In response to Kostopolous's questions, Aaron next provides his address, social security number, and home phone number.

"You're married, right?" Kostopolous asks.

Aaron hesitates for a moment, as if the answer to this question might somehow incriminate Cynthia. Then, realizing that couldn't possibly be the case, he says, "Yes."

"You got any drug dependencies? On any prescription meds? Anything like that?"

"No."

Kostopolous fills in some information that apparently doesn't need Aaron's input before asking, "Do you have any scars or tattoos, or any other distinguishing features or peculiarities?"

Aaron can't hide a slight smile as he contemplates what const.i.tutes a peculiarity. "No," he says again.

"Any prior arrests?"

Another question that probably shouldn't be asked without counsel present. "No."

"Employer?"

"Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White."

If Kostopolous is impressed, he doesn't show it. Then he proves the name means nothing to him by asking, "Can you spell that?"

Aaron slowly spells out all four names, including White, even though he suspects Kostopolous will think it's a smart-a.s.s response.

If Kostopolous is insulted, he doesn't show it. Instead he does a little more scribbling on the intake form and then reaches for the phone.

"He's ready," Kostopolous says into the receiver.

A minute or so later, a skinny man wearing jeans and a flannel shirt enters. He introduces himself as "the tech" but doesn't give his name.

Kostopolous unlocks the handcuffs, but not before he makes a point of telling Aaron that the door will be locked from the outside. Aaron rubs his wrist, thankful for this brief moment of freedom.

The tech says, "The good news is that we don't fingerprint with ink anymore. We did up until about two years ago. Now it's all computers."

He grabs Aaron's wrist. One by one he places each of Aaron's fingers on the machine, then each palm. Finally, he tells Aaron that they're going to do "the roll" and demonstrates by rolling his own hand over the machine. After Aaron does likewise, the tech walks over to the door and knocks twice.

Kostopolous comes back into the room, reapplies the handcuff to Aaron's left wrist, and fastens the right cuff back to the bar. Both the tech and Kostopolous then leave the room without saying a word to Aaron.

Aaron sits there for more than an hour with a single thought going through his head: How are Cynthia and the twins coping? He can imagine the girls in tears and Cynthia trying to remain calm in order to comfort them.

The last thing the girls said to him was that he looked hot in his tuxedo. Sure, they said it in the sarcastic way of teenagers, but he still thought that they meant it as a compliment. Their way of telling him that they were proud of him. And now, he would never be the same man to them again. There would always be a before and an after. Perhaps with Cynthia, he had already breached that divide when he told her about Faith-or when he started his affair-but for the girls, tonight will be the night when they lost their innocence about their father.

When Kostopolous finally returns, he says, "There's no judge on call now. The Sat.u.r.day judge went home at three and no one sits on Sunday. That means you're going to be a guest of the federal marshals for the next two nights. We're looking for an open bed somewhere. Usually Na.s.sau County helps us out, so it's possible you're going to be heading out there. As soon as we know who's going to take you, we'll move you, but it may be a while. So sit tight, and don't go anywhere."

Kostopolous says this with a smile, and Aaron wonders how many times he must have made that joke.

After another hour alone, Aaron a.s.sumes that they've forgotten about him. He lies down on the bench, figuring that it could well end up being his bed for the night.

Forty minutes later, while Aaron is still staring up at the pockmarked tiles on the ceiling, Agent Lacey reenters the room.

"You're a lucky man, Littman," he says. "There's an empty bed at MCC, so you're not going to travel very far tonight."

Aaron offers a pained smile. Right now, he doesn't feel very lucky.

40.

It's pitch-black when Rachel is startled awake. Her first thought is that it's still the middle of the night, but then the phone alarm goes off again, and that's enough for her to remember she has to meet Sam Rosenthal at six o'clock that morning.

Everything else rushes back in an avalanche of bad news: Aaron has been arrested, and she spent the night in his apartment babysitting his drunk wife, who believes that Rachel has been sleeping with her husband.

Rachel recalls the light being dim last night, but when she flips the switch, the illumination is harsh enough to take her a few blinks to adjust. When the room comes into focus, she spies the gown she wore to the prom folded over a slipper chair. More bad news: she has no clothing here aside from that dress.

With little choice, she puts the dress back on, like prepping for a walk of shame. Even without the benefit of a mirror, she knows she can't step into a prison dressed like this, or even past the reporters camped outside the building.

It takes Rachel a few minutes of wandering about the duplex, but she finally manages to find the master bedroom downstairs. She pushes open the door and hears Cynthia snoring lightly. In a whisper, she says, "Cynthia," and when that does not elicit a response, she returns to her normal voice. "Cynthia, you need to wake up."

Cynthia groans, a deep guttural sound that makes Rachel think that she was even more inebriated last night than she previously believed. That perception is further reinforced when Rachel flips the light on and Cynthia violently places her forearm over her eyes and groans again, as if she's a vampire.

"Cynthia, wake up. I need to talk to you."

Cynthia opens a single eye. "Oh my G.o.d," she says, and then tries the other one.

Rachel holds in a laugh. No one with a hangover enjoys being made fun of.

"How are you feeling?"

"I've certainly been better." Cynthia glances over at the clock on the night table, then straightens herself and rubs her eyes.

Cynthia lets out another groan as she gets to her feet. "I haven't drunk like that in a long time. . . . Thank you, Rachel. Very much. I don't remember everything from last night, but I remember enough to know that I owe you an apology. So . . . I'm sorry."

"No apology necessary. This is a very difficult time for all of us," Rachel says. "I'm going to go downtown to the U.S. Attorney's Office to find out where they're holding Aaron. As soon as I know where, I'll text you the address."

Cynthia looks Rachel up and down before saying, "You're going like that?"

"Yeah, that occurred to me, too. I was actually hoping that maybe I could borrow something of yours."

Cynthia slowly makes her way to her closet. "I think this might fit," she says, handing Rachel a simple blue dress with a J.Crew label.

"Thank you," Rachel says. "My suggestion is that you not bring the twins. Aaron will be arraigned on Monday, and they can see him there. Sometimes seeing someone in prison . . . it's hard."

Cynthia's eyes begin to tear up, and she rubs her face with her hands. "Okay," she says quietly. "I'll see you soon."

And then Cynthia reaches forward and hugs Rachel.

THE U.S. ATTORNEY'S OFFICE visitors' entrance is a makeshift structure that sits in the middle of the plaza outside the actual building. Two guards man the s.p.a.ce, both of them twenty pounds overweight. One has a mustache and the other sports a beard.

"The building doesn't open until eight o'clock," the bearded guard says.

"I'm not here to see an AUSA," Rachel explains, using the acronym for an a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney so the guards know she speaks the lingo. "I want to visit someone who was arrested last night. I'm trying to find out where he's being held. Aaron Littman."

After she spells out the last name the mustached guard clicks some keys on the keyboard. "Littman. Aaron?" he says.

"Yes."

"Looks like he's over at MCC. That's just across the way here."

SAM ROSENTHAL IS SITTING in the lobby area of the MCC when Rachel arrives. He's wearing a three-piece suit and tie, and with his bald head and cane, Rachel thinks that he looks a little like Mr. Peanut, sans top hat and monocle.

Rachel proceeds to fill Rosenthal in on last night.

"Cynthia knew about the affair," she says.

Rosenthal nods. "Yeah, Aaron told her. After the murder."

"No. She knew before. She'd figured it out somehow."

Rosenthal doesn't react, although she's certain he understands what she's saying: if Cynthia knew that Aaron was having an affair with Judge Nichols, then she had a motive.

They sit for the next few minutes in an uncomfortable silence. Rachel has a million questions, but she can tell that Rosenthal is in no mood to answer any of them.

After what seems like an eternity in awkward purgatory, the guard behind the desk shouts out, "Counsel can enter now."

Rosenthal and Rachel go up to the third floor. Once there, they're led by another guard, this one a woman, to the visitors' room-the same place where Aaron met with Nicolai Garkov.

"We'll be bringing the defendant in shortly," the guard says.

"He's not a defendant," Rosenthal answers.

"What?"

"There hasn't been a formal charge yet, and so Mr. Littman is not a criminal defendant. He's merely been arrested."

"Oh," the guard says, the distinction obviously irrelevant to her. "Either way, he'll be here in a few minutes."

AARON ENTERS THE ROOM wearing a light blue smock. It looks a bit like a hospital gown, although it fully closes in the back. Small favors, Aaron thinks.