It’s mercifully clear of reporters and crowds, but it looks like martial law has been declared. There are double the number of marshals, and even the lawyers and court employees have to go through the detectors. I join one of the lines, predictably the slowest moving. “What gives?” I say to a skinny marshal, when I reach the middle of the line. Jeff stands at his side. “New rules, on account of that circus last week.” “A little late, isn’t it?” “Tell the AO that.” In front of me in line is an older woman, thin and tall, with marvelously erect posture. Her gray hair is swept into an elegant French twist and the air around her smells like lilac bushes in June. “Line up, now!” roars McLean, at the head of the line. His booming voice sets the woman in front of me trembling. “All bags on the conveyor belt! All bags on the belt! Sir, sir!” he shouts at a heavyset man in a red Phillies windbreaker. “Shit,” the man says. He surrenders the wrinkled paper bag to the conveyor belt of the X-ray machine.
