Adjourned by Lee Goldberg

apparently a lawyer, ran through the courtroom, breezed through an executive board meeting, and whisked past the maître d' of a fine restaurant to a table.
    "Gee, Mary, how do you stay so active?" her plain-looking harried female lunch companion asked, her voice dripping with absolute awe.
    Mary reached into her purse. "New You–brand tampons!"
    Shaw sighed, switching his attention from the monitor to the stage. Technicians scurried on the set like ants. Fitz sat stoically at his bench, staring blankly into the audience. Shaw felt a little sad. This wasn't the Harlan Fitz who had once been a feared judge and outspoken critic of the inadequacies of the law.
    Shaw thought back to the Public Disorder Intelligence pision file on Fitz he had read after the meeting with Macklin in Stocker's office several days ago. The report attributed Fitz's retirement to political and personal pressures. It concluded that Fitz was overwhelmed by the futility of battling what he saw as the inadequacy of the law and became disheartened by the lack of cooperation from fellow judges. Exasperated and exhausted, he retired.
    Fitz became a nomadic media personality, a frequent guest on radio and TV programs. According to the numerous newspaper clippings of interviews done with Fitz that Shaw read in the PDID file, Fitz thought he could educate the public, initiate change. The media exploited Fitz's outrage, Shaw believed, ignoring the man's insights and turning his vehement attacks on the legal system into entertainment.
    Shaw studied Fitz now as the director signaled the cameramen that the commercial break was nearly over. Shaw thought Fitz looked lost. He prayed to God that he was reading Fitz right. That assumption was his long shot. Macklin—the city, for that matter—depended on that.
    Yet once the commercial was over, Shaw watched Fitz come alive, whittling away what little confidence Shaw had in his all-important assumption.
    Fitz played the game with wit and vigor, appearing both knowledgeable and authoritative. Even interested. That was no small feat. The contestants were argumentative morons with no concept of the law or, it seemed to Shaw, simple logic.
    Once the next commercial break came, Shaw noticed the judge sag, the glow disappearing from his face. Unlike the toothy host, when the cameras went off, so did Fitz.
    Maybe, Shaw thought, just maybe there is some hope.
    After a few more cases were heard, Ms. Overbite broke the 0-to-0 deadlock with the black marine and won the game. Then came the "judge-off" for the car. She had to match Fitz's decision on a particular case. Shaw didn't hear the host read the question, but it had something to with premature ejaculation, mud wrestling, break dancing, and a set of broken skis.
    Ms. Overbite closed her eyes and clutched the host. Her lip quivering, she announced her decision. She looked hopefully at Fitz. A prerecorded drum rolled. A hush fell on the audience. Fitz held up a gavel-shaped placard with his answer scrawled across in felt-tipped marker. Their decisions matched.
    The woman screamed joyfully, jumping around the host like a hysterical kangaroo. As the audience went wild with applause, Shaw slipped out of the control room and into a narrow slate gray corridor. He shuffled toward a door a dozen footsteps away. Harlan Fitz's name, hastily handwritten in capital letters on a sheet of typing paper, was affixed to the door with yellow masking tape. As Shaw neared Fitz's door, his fear grew. He knew that Fitz had frequently—and publicly—chastised the ill-prepared prosecutors, careless cops, and sleazy lawyers who let criminals slip through the justice system unscathed. That's what had gotten the PDID interested in him. But Shaw also knew his proposal could just piss off Fitz even more. The judge could go to the press.
    And then comes the end of the world.
    Shaw turned the doorknob and stepped inside. He immediately felt cramped for breathing space. The windowless room