Zero.
Not a bang, but a flicker. A cascade of small, silent explosions of light in the sea of faces below the dais. On my screen, the high-definition camera catches it perfectly: the sudden, ghost-white illumination of a dozen faces in the press corps, then two dozen, then more, as the email notification lands. The game is over. The signal has been sent.
Arthur doesn’t see it. He is lost in his moment, his right hand raised, his left resting on a Bible that feels like an obscene prop. His gaze is fixed on the Chief Justice, his lips parted, ready to utter the words that would have made him untouchable.
The Chief Justice, his voice a frail, reedy instrument of power, begins, “I, Arthur Vance…”
He is cut off.
Not by a shout, but by a sound. The sound of a single man standing up. The scr
