I pull a single shot from the machine and watch the crema settle. It’s bitter and hot and good. On the island, an iPad sits propped against a small stand. Eleven years ago, you had to poke at screens like Whac-A-Mole. Now it takes a swipe and a glance, and it opens to exactly where I left it—news, numbers, a summary of the overnight feed.
I like it. It’s fast. Sure, it can be frustrating at times to have to re-learn the world that went on without me.
But you stay alive by staying current, and that includes new technologies.
I swipe through headlines. Atlantic City. New York. A court calendar. I flag three things to send to Giovanni later and keep reading.
Footsteps echo down the hall. A second later, Maria appears in the doorway with Antonio behind her. “Mr. Antonio is here.”
“Thank you, Maria,” I say.
Antonio steps past her with a folder under his arm, jacket open, tie straight. He kisses the air by my cheek out of habit and sets the folder on the island.
“Morning,” he says.
“You want one?” I lift the demitasse.
He glances at the machine. “If it’s already hot.”
“It’s always hot.” I pull a shot and slide it to him. He drinks without sugar.
He nods at the iPad on the table where I was sitting. “You figuring that thing out?”
“I am,” I say. “It’s handy.”
He taps the folder. “Got some news.”
I sit down at the table and pick up my espresso. “Talk.”
“Heads-up from our people,” he says. “Marshals ran a full sweep on the prosecutor last night. Apartment, car, garage. They also tightened procedures on her office floor and added additional security rotations to the building.”
I take a slow drink. “Define ‘tightened.’”
“Home first,” he says, opening the folder. “Blinds, privacy film. New alarms and cameras on the building and parking garage. New router procedure. Package room holds—ID only, and they sweep them. No balcony. She sends updates when she leaves and arrives at work or home.”
“That all?”
“Food too. No outside prep,” he says. “No coffee shops, no takeout. They do the shopping for her. Varying departure and arrival times.”
I let a smile show. Small. “All because I handed her a drink.”
“They don’t like leaks,” he says.
“And her office?” I say.
“Reception briefed—no handoffs, no ‘drop this for her’ nonsense. If someone tries, they call upstairs. Elevator holds if she asks. A plainclothes deputy in the garage during her arrival and departure windows. Out of sight.”
I nod. “Good to know.”
“Also heard they’re staggering your check-ins with pretrial,” he adds. “Not the same times, not the same days. It’s meant to keep everyone guessing.”
I shrug. “They can pick the hours. I’ll make the hours work.”
Antonio closes the folder partway and watches me over the edge. “You look pleased.”
“It’s interesting,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
