“No,” I say, because if I say anything else, everything resembling my life burns to the ground.
His eyes don’t blink. “Have you had any non-professional contact with any member of the Conti family since assignment to the Conti matter in this district?”
“No.”
“Phone calls, texts, emails, letters, DMs?”
“No.”
His pen doesn’t move. He isn’t writing my answers down. That’s worse somehow. “Have you seen Mr. Conti outside of court or Pretrial Services interviews?”
“No,” I say, and the word scrapes my throat.
“Have you had any contact with any member of Mr. Conti’s immediate circle—Giovanni Conti, Roberto Conti, Antonio Conti, Vito Conti, Nico Conti—outside of official business?”
“No,” I say. The room is suddenly too bright. The blinds slice light across my hands.
“Did you meet with a Dr. Bianchi yesterday morning?”
My heart misses a step. I feel it, an actual skip like it tripped and caught itself. “That’s my medical care,” I say evenly. “Protected information.”
“Is it?” He tilts his head as if he’s genuinely curious. “Elena, I’m not asking what you were seen for. I’m asking whether you met with a physician yesterday morning and whether any third parties were present in the exam room.”
I don’t look away. I don’t reach for the mug. “I met withaphysician,” I say. “No third party present.”
He watches me over steepled fingers. His eyes are pale blue in this light; I’ve never noticed that. “We received a tip,” he says. “Anonymous. That you’ve been seen with Mr. Conti outside the office. That your car was tracked to his residence last week. That you had contact in New York with his family.”
The words sit between us like a yawning valley, the gap widening more and more. I picture Antonio and Nico bracketing me on the sidewalk, the white card with ten digits pressed into my palm. My stomach churns.
“You receive a lot of anonymous tips,” I say, too calm. “Defense counsel who want to try their case in the court of gossip. Reporters who sniff around. Defendants with nothing to do but stir mud.”
“True,” he says. “But some tips pan out.” He flips the top file open. “And some tips come with photographs.”
He slides a printed page across the desk. It’s color, grainy, long-lens. The front of my building. My car at the curb. Time stamp in the corner. Another shot, different angle: me walking to the lobby, head down. Nothing illegal. Everything suggestive.
My pulse slams against the delicate skin at my throat. “So I live in a building with cameras,” I say. “Breaking news.”
Another page slides. Hotel awning in New York. Me stepping out of the revolving door into the morning. A man in the midground with his shoulder to the frame, face out of sight. Antonio? It could be. It could also be a stranger. The image is fodder; that’s its point.
“There’s nothing in those that point to anyone,” I say quietly.
“No,” Hart says. “But contact is an issue if it compromises the integrity of this office.” He taps the corner of the second print. “Were you followed in New York?”
“Probably,” I say, and the honesty tastes like acid. “There’s a reason I was under protection by the marshals a few weeks back.”
He sits back. “Elena, I want you to take a breath and think carefully before you answer the next question.” His tone shifts—less prosecutorial, more paternal in a way that makes me want to bare my teeth. “Is there anything you need to disclose to me, right now, about your ability to continue on United States v. Conti?”
The ultrasound picture pulses behind my eyes. The tiny flicker. I force my face into stillness until my cheeks ache. “No.”
He studies me like he’s waiting for me to blink first. I don’t.
He exhales, a small release that doesn’t relax him. “All right,” he says, but it feels like a door closing. “The court held you in high regard when we moved for GPS. They listen when you speak. Defense counsel has already insinuated bias on cable news. They called you a ‘zealot with a vendetta.’”
Roberto. His smooth voice in my ear even now. He plays one game in the room and another outside it. “He’s wrong,” I say.
“I know,” Hart says, and for a second, he almost sounds like he means it. Then it’s gone. “But optics matter as much as outcomes when we try a case in the public square and the courtroom simultaneously. You know this.” He gestures, a neat line in the air from me to the door and back. “I can’t keep you on a case where an anonymous tip paired with public photographs can destroy a verdict. If there’s even a whiff of impropriety—Brady, Giglio, the Ethics Committee—”
“I know the rules,” I snap. The lack of sleep catches up with me. I lower my voice. “I live by the rules. I lecture on the rules.”
