The federal holding facility in downtown Los Angeles smelled like industrial cleaner and institutional resignation. I had been inside facilities like this many times as a defense attorney, always on the outside of the glass, always holding the briefcase, always the person whose presence represented the possibility of a door opening.
Today I was still holding the briefcase.
The guard on the intake desk looked at my ID. Then at his screen. Then back at me with the specific expression of a man who had just confirmed something he found surprising. "Your bar license was reinstated this morning, Mrs. Knight. Provisional, pending the formal hearing, but active."
I looked at the badge he slid across the desk. My name. My title. Attorney at Law.
Provisional. But real.
"Thank you," I said.
I c
