Vanishing Acts by Phillip Margolin, Ami Margolin Rome

court in a blue button-down shirt with thin white stripes and pressed khakis.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” Jake said. “My mom made me change clothes when I told her where I was going. I feel like a dork in this outfit.”
    The exterior of the courthouse was brutish, but the lobby was an elegant mix of marble, dark wood, and polished brass. It would have looked nicer if it wasn’t cluttered with metal detectors and guard stations. Madison had grown up in her father’s law office, so she was used to mingling with suspicious-looking people. Madison watched Jake force himself to keep his eyes forward when two bearded bikers in black leather jackets and stained jeans crowded in behind him, then shift them toward the floor when he found himself looking at a skinny girl with glazed eyes and a nose ring and her muscle-bound, tattooed boyfriend.
    After Madison and Jake made it past the airport-like security, they rode the elevator to the fifth floor, where Mark Shelby’s bail hearing had just started. They tiptoed down the aisle and took seats on a hard wooden bench a few rows back from the low fence that separated the spectators from people having business before the court.
    The Honorable Vikki Young presided in a grand, high-ceilinged courtroom with ornate molding, marble Corinthian columns, and a dais of polished wood. She was an intimidating, dour woman with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes who glared at the lawyers through glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. Madison really wanted to try cases . . . but she hoped Judge Young was retired by the time she graduated from law school.
    â€œThat’s my dad,” Madison whispered, nodding toward Hamilton, who was sitting at the heavy wooden counsel table at the side of the courtroom farthest from the empty jury box. Seated beside Hamilton was Mark Shelby. Madison studied him. He was a tanned, athletic man in his mid-thirties, thick necked and broad shouldered. He looked tall even sitting down. Madison only had to look at him for a few seconds to see that he was very nervous. Shelby was fidgeting in his seat, and his eyes darted around the front of the courtroom as if he expected to be attacked.
    â€œIs that your dad’s client?” Jake asked as they sat down.
    Madison nodded.
    â€œI thought a murderer would look creepier,” Jake said.
    â€œMr. Shelby is an alleged murderer,” Madison corrected Jake. “Remember, accused people are innocent until found guilty.”
    â€œThis guy looks too nice to have killed anyone.”
    â€œI know, most murderers look normal. If they all looked weird, it would be easy to catch them. But since they look normal, anyone could be a murderer—your dentist or librarian . . . anyone.”
    â€œOkay, okay, smarty,” Jake whispered, smiling. “Where’s the jury?”
    â€œThis is a bail hearing to decide if Mr. Shelby will have to stay in jail until the trial is over or if he can post bail and stay out. A judge decides whether to grant bail. You have juries at the full trial.”
    Before Madison could say anything else, a well-dressed African American in his early thirties stood up.
    â€œThe State calls Thelma Bauer,” he said.
    â€œWho is that?” Jake asked.
    â€œHe’s Dennis Payne, an assistant district attorney. He works for the state, and his job is to convict people who are charged with a crime.”
    â€œIs he any good?”
    â€œDad thinks he’s one of the best prosecutors in the District Attorney’s office.”
    â€œShh,” someone behind them said. Madison turned to see an old lady shake her finger at them for talking.
    â€œSorry!” Madison whispered.
    The courtroom door opened and the key witness in the case against Mark Shelby walked to the witness box. Thelma Bauer was dressed in her Sunday best and had applied too much makeup. She was just over five feet tall, but she stretched to her full height as she proudly took the