The room was a study in institutional gray. Gray metal table bolted to the floor, gray polymer chairs, gray walls that seemed to absorb all sound and light. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and despair. It was a place designed to strip away power, to reduce men like Marcus to their bare, desperate selves. He sat opposite me, the fluorescent lights overhead carving new, harsh lines into his face. The week in federal custody had aged him a decade.
Arthur and Hayes, his lead counsel, were present, stationed in opposite corners of the room like sentinels at a tomb. Their presence was a legal necessity, but their silence was absolute. This was not their stage.
Marcus didn't speak at first. He just watched me, his eyes burning with a cold, analytical fury. The panicked rage from the depos
