His car was in the impound lot behind the building; they'd left it unlocked. The glove box was still open from Wells's search. Papers from the center console were scattered across the passenger seat. The garment bag hung untouched.
Adrian gathered the papers, closed the glove box, and sat in the driver's seat for a long moment with his hands on the wheel. The leather was warm from the sun. The cut on his cheek had dried into a thin, dark line; he could feel it pull every time he moved his jaw.
He checked the mirror. The bruise along his jawline was turning purple. A crescent-shaped scrape ran from his cheekbone to his ear where the asphalt had bitten in. He touched it once, pulled his hand away.
Then, he drove. Not home, not to a hospital, not to an attorney's office: he drove north on I-16, merged onto I-75, and kept going. The courthouse was forty-three minutes away. He had a docket at 9:00.
At a gas station—a different one, larger, well-lit, busy—he stopped. Used the restroom to wash the dried blood off his face. The water ran pink in the white sink. He patted his cheek dry with a paper towel, careful around the edges of the cut. He changed into a fresh shirt, knotted his tie in the mirror, and adjusted the collar so it sat just below the bruise. He didn't try to hide it.
Back in the car, he reached over the seat and unzipped the garment bag. The robe was black and pressed and perfect. He hung it from the hook above the window—the same hook it had hung from all night while two officers searched everything around it and never once looked up.
Adrian Ross pulled back onto the highway. The sun was full now. The road was clear. Forty-three minutes.
The Whitfield County Federal Courthouse sat at the end of an oak-lined street in downtown Dalton, Georgia: three stories of limestone and glass, built in the nineties to replace the old one that had finally given up on its foundation. A row of columns along the front, an American flag snapping in the morning breeze—the kind of building designed to make you feel small when you walked in.
Adrian parked in the reserved lot behind the building, space number one. A small placard bolted to the wall read: Reserved, Judge A. Ross. The placard was new; the screws were still silver.
He entered through the rear door, badge in hand. The security guard, an older man named Hector who'd worked the building for eleven years, looked at the badge, looked at Adrian's face, and did a small double-take. "Morning, Your Honor. You, uh..." He gestured vaguely at his own cheek.
"I'm fine, Hector. Thank you."
The hallway was long and quiet. His shoes clicked on the marble floor, past the clerk's office, past the law library, past the portraits of every judge who'd served in this district: all white faces going back 130 years. There was an empty frame at the end of the row—his frame. His photograph hadn't been hung yet.
Sandra Whitmore was waiting outside his chambers: fifty-three years old, 5'2", hair pulled back in a bun tight enough to survive a hurricane. She'd clerked for three federal judges before Adrian and had a reputation for two things: flawless preparation and zero tolerance for nonsense.
She saw the cut on his face and the bruise along his jaw. Her eyes widened, then they narrowed. "What happened?"
"Long night."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I have right now." Adrian opened the door to his chambers. "Walk me through the docket."
Sandra followed him in. The office was large and sparse; he'd only moved in three days ago. Boxes still lined one wall. The desk was mahogany and older than the building itself, inherited from the previous judge. A brass nameplate sat front and center: Honorable Adrian Ross, United States District Judge.
Sandra opened the docket file. "You have four matters this morning: two motions, a scheduling conference, and an evidentiary hearing."