I slipped him a tiny grin. "Really? Go figure."
Before Lucas could continue, his cell rang. After two nos, one thank-you, and one "We'll be there," he hung up.
"Speak of the devil?" I said.
He nodded. "The answer is still no. Worse yet, it seems likely to be a permanent no. They've moved the trial to tomorrow."
"What?"
"They say they've rescheduled because both sides are ready earlier than expected, but I suspect our sustained efforts to obtain an audience helped sway their decision."
"So they're blocking us by bumping up the trial." I leaned back in my chair, hiding a grimace as the movement pulled at my torn stomach muscles. "That's it, then. We're screwed."
"Not yet. As my father pointed out, if Weber is found guilty, there's always the option of appeal. At least this will give us the opportunity to hear the entire case. If the prosecution presents concrete evidence linking Weber to the attacks, we may deem an appeal unnecessary."
"And save everyone, including ourselves, a lot of grief."
"Precisely. Likewise, if they've found nothing new and they fail to address alternate possibilities--that Weber was working with the real killer, or unwittingly obtained the information for him--then we have grounds for appeal." He sipped his coffee. "How are you feeling?"
"Well enough to go to the trial, if that's what you're aski
ng."
The session was set to begin promptly at eight; Lucas assured me this was normal for a Cabal trial. Unlike human murder trials, a Cabal session never stretched for weeks or months. Their court days ran from eight A.M. to eight P.M. and every effort was made to finish within a day or two.
We arrived by cab just past seven. The court and holding cells were almost exactly what I'd first expected the corporate offices to be, a renovated warehouse hidden deep in an industrial ghetto. Lucas had the driver drop us at the sidewalk behind one of the shabbier buildings.
Normally, I'd have insisted on paying the driver, but today I let Lucas. The last thing he needed was a squabble over cab fare. Every stress of the past few days was etched on his face. As he turned from paying the driver, I noticed his tie was crooked. I had to do a double take, certain I was mistaken.
"Hmm?" he said, catching my look.
"Your tie's crooked."
His hands flew up to adjust it.
"Here, let me." I stood on tiptoes to fix it. "You need to get some sleep tonight. In a real bed. We're moving to a hotel."
"Not until you're better."
"I am better," I said. "I look better, don't I?"
A small smile. "Better than better."
"Well, then--"
"Oh, look," a voice said behind me. "If it isn't the geek crusader."
Lucas stiffened. I stifled the urge to sling a fireball over my shoulder. Lucas didn't need this. A fireball would be justified. Inappropriate, but justified.
I turned to see a slim, well-built man in his early thirties, his model-caliber face marred by a sneer. Behind him stood William Cortez, which led me to hazard a guess at the identity of the younger man: Carlos.
"There must be a protest march going on somewhere," William said. "I'm sure they'd be more appreciative of your talents, Lucas. Leave the real work to the grown-ups."
I clenched my jaw to keep from reminding him who'd done the "real work" of bringing in the killer, and risked their lives to do so.
"Paige, you've met William," Lucas said. "And this is Carlos. Carlos, Paige. Now, if you'll excuse us--"
"Not bad, little brother," Carlos said as he checked me out. "Got to hand it to you. Better than I expected. You must have some hidden assets after all."