Court staffers move aside, making way for the multiheaded beast moving down the stairs, the swarm of press and rubberneckers, Jay at the very center of it, his client on one side and his daughter on the other. Gregg, the seasoned newspaperman, doesn’t let more than a few inches get between him and his subjects, making notes on the scene, letting the girls in heels and the men in shiny suits do the dirty work, shouting vulgar questions over their microphones and one another: Did you have anything to do with the death of Alicia Nowell? Was she working for your uncle’s campaign? Did Axel try to stall the investigation? Gregg notes every twitch of Neal’s eyebrow, every upward curl of his lip, but is smart enough to simply observe at this point, leaning in at just the right moment to whisper in Jay’s ear, “You let me know when you want to tell your side.” Jay reaches for Ellie’s hand, squeezing it tight, keeping her close as they push through the crowd. He turns to Neal. “Where’s your car?”
