Miles makes a note. “Good. And you.”
“Kept it to the record,” I say. “Pushed for heightened supervision. Held the proffer line when Roberto tried to smear with rumor. Judge didn’t bite either way.”
“He seldom does once he’s decided.” Miles leans back. “You’re not wrong to have pushed. You’re not wrong to have lost. It’s the first inning.” He taps the pad with the back of his pen. “What’s your next pitch?”
I don’t need to look at my notes. “Pretrial first. I want eyes on the install—device, compliance, and the exact language of themonitoring agreement. I want a contact there who calls me if he breathes too close to a line. Not the day after. In the moment.”
“Name someone,” he says.
“Mason or Diaz,” I say. “Mason knows the field guys and doesn’t mind being unpopular. Diaz will call me instead of sending an email. Mason is my first pick.”
“Take Mason,” Miles says, writing it. “What else?”
“Lucia Dixon,” I say and leave it at that.
“Absent yesterday, I presume,” Miles says. At my nod, he continues, “What do you intend to do?”
“She’s a factor whether she’s in the room or not,” I say. “But I don’t want to make contact just yet. She isn’t a witness I want to spook, and we can’t compel her to cooperate. She has to raise her hand. If Nick Dixon’s shadow is anywhere near this, the ethics get ugly fast. I’m documenting everything that touches that acquisition. It’s not the case in front of us, but shadows matter.”
“They do,” he says. “Dixon purchasing the prison complicates things. It could be used for us or against us, depending on Lucia.”
“I intend on making it work for us,” I say with certainty.
“What about inter-agency?” Miles flips a page in the file in front of him.
“I’ll loop FBI and IRS-CI,” I say. “Keep the footprint tight. We don’t need a parade. We need competence and discretion.
“You’ll get it,” he says. “I’ll make the calls on that one to ensure it.”
He scratches another note, then looks up, and I know we’ve moved on.
“Do you want your other cases reassigned?” he asks. “Just until this takes shape. No shame in triage. This is going to be… consuming.”
There it is, the question I knew was coming but never wanted to be asked. I sit up straighter. “I can handle it,” I say. “I have a suppression hearing set for next Thursday, and I’ve already drafted the response. Fraud case in discovery; it’s document-heavy but straightforward. The racketeering case we inherited from Tom? Status conference only; I can push a month with defense consent. I won’t let anything slip.”
He doesn’t nod. He watches, weighing not just my words but the way they were delivered. “I know your reputation, Pennino,” he says finally. “It’s why I asked for you. But reputation can’t hold up to physical limitations. Time is working against us, and I can’t have you fading halfway through this. You’re not less capable if you say ‘park these two for sixty days.’”
“I hear you,” I say. “The moment I feel the edges fray, I’ll come to you and we’ll reassign. You have my word. I don’t gamble with cases, especially not this one.”
Miles lets that hang, then breathes out through his nose, a soft, satisfied sound. “All right,” he says. “I’m holding you to it.” He glances at the glass wall and then back. “Yesterday. Conti. How did it sit with you?”
My first thought is thethingI felt that passed between us like a live wire. God help me.
But then I realize how ridiculous that is. He’s not talking about attraction between a man and a woman. He’s talking about the interaction between a prosecutor and the criminal I’m trying to keep in prison.
“We didn’t have much contact. He clocked me,” I say. “Then he put it away.”
“Good,” Miles says. “Keep it away. He controls with fear. Don’t let it get to you.”
I nod. “Noted.”
He slides a small stack of papers to me. “Memos from Pretrial, Probation, and the Marshals. Morning updates. Read them and call Mason. I want a single sheet by close of business that lists every enforceable condition, the monitoring calendar, and our escalation path for violations. No legal poetry. Bullets.”
“Done,” I say.
He caps his pen and leans back, eyes on the ceiling like he’s reading something up there only he can see. “Three decades,”he says softly, almost to himself. “You learn that the most dangerous days are the first three after release. Pride walks, old loyalties want proof, and the quiet is a cover for something awful and terrifying. He’ll over-correct or under-correct. You make sure we catch whichever one it is.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
