I was panting by the time I reached Ted.

“What’s the verdict?” he said.

I shook my head, sucking in breath. “They don’t have one yet. Pitello passed out. They took a ten-minute recess, but I think I know what’s going to happen, and I want to run with it.”

Ted gave me a wary look. “What do you think is going to happen?”

I filled him in on the lack of a single look from the jurors. I told him my opinion that they were going to find Pitello guilty.

“How sure are you?” he said.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

We both stared at each other, pondering that one percent.

“Isn’t this what Trial TV wants?” I asked. “It’s the first day. And if we’re the first to report on what we think is expected with this verdict and we get it right, won’t that be a good thing?”

Ted nodded. “But if you’re wrong…”

“If I’m wrong, I have another job sniffing panties.”

Ted’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing. What do you think?”

He shrugged. “Let’s do it.”

After a minute spent attaching my ISB and setting up the shot, I heard Jane’s voice in the earpiece. “Isabel McNeil is at the Criminal Courts Building in Chicago, where the verdict of mob lawyer, Tony Pitello, is about to be announced. Isabel, what’s the latest?”

I looked into the camera, the way Ted had told me, and just as he’d told me, I talked to Jane as if she were right in front of me.

“Jane, just minutes ago, the jury in Tony Pitello’s case filed into the courtroom, ready to read their verdict. But Pitello fainted, apparently due to the stress of the situation. His head hit the table in front of him, making a small wound on his forehead. Judge Kevin Glenn recessed the court for ten minutes.”

“Interesting turn of events,” Jane said. “Any idea what’s going to happen, Isabel?”

“Yes,” I said with authority, peering into the large, reflective eye of the camera. “The jury is going to find him guilty.”

21

W hen I got back to the station, an intern was waiting for me inside the front door. He was the one who had gotten screamed at by Tommy Daley earlier. And he looked even more scared now.

“Tommy wants to see you.”

I found Tommy in the studio, standing in front of the interview area with the blue leather chairs. He was waving a clipboard and yelling about getting people miked. Two people sat on the chairs. One was a woman in a brown tweed suit, who looked overwhelmed by her surroundings. “Don’t look at the cameras,” a floor director was saying to her. “Only look at Jane.”

The other person in the interview area was an elegant man in his midsixties with a mass of artfully arranged silver hair. I immediately recognized him as Jackson Prince, Chicago’s litigation ruler. He was a multimillionaire lawyer who got all the huge personal injury cases in the city and had now moved on to bigger fish, like the drug companies. Prince didn’t seem to notice Tommy’s frenetic preparations for what was obviously going to be a guest segment of the show. Instead, he scrolled through his BlackBerry, then when he was done, crossed his legs, sighed a bit and glanced around him, as if he was waiting patiently for someone to deliver him a cup of tea.

Tommy stopped in midrant when he saw me. He stepped off the set and walked toward me. I smiled a wide, fake grin as I waited.

His face was even ruddier than that morning, his hair electric-looking. “I cannot believe you made a verdict prediction on national TV,” he said.

“Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”

A snarl formed on his face, and Tommy opened his mouth, but I jumped in before he could respond.

“I mean, what you said they wanted,” I corrected. “The network wanted me to filter the story through my experience in the law, right? I did that. And I backed it up.” On air, I’d explained my reasoning for the opinion-the lack of eye contact from the jurors.

“I was right,” I added. I had run back inside the courtroom, found that Pitello had indeed been found guilty, and scuttled back outside to report that the verdict was official.

Tommy Daley shook his head. His features slackened. “I can’t believe I still work in this business. I can’t believe this is how it works now.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“One minute,” a voice called out.

A makeup person scampered onto the set and began to dab powder onto Jackson Prince’s cheeks.

“Look, let me give you some pointers,” Tommy said. “Your cadence is stilted, and you’re too tight. You don’t have to hold your shoulders like you’re facing a firing squad, okay? But yeah, I guess you’re right. You did give them what they wanted.”

Although it wasn’t the highest of praise, I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Give me a second, and I’ll show you how to write it up so we can use the story on a later broadcast.”

Tommy stopped and turned as Jane trotted onto the set and settled herself between Prince and the woman in the tweed suit.

The screens around the interview area came to life, showing two lawyers, one in L.A. and one in New York, both of whom had been placed in front of official-looking bookshelves.

“Three, two…” a voice called out. The lights blazed brighter.

“This is Jane Augustine,” Jane said, smiling into the semicircle of cameras surrounding the set. “Welcome back to Trial TV. During our morning Coffee Break today we’ll be talking about runaway class action lawsuits.”

She quickly introduced her guests, in a way that made it seem like Trial TV had been having a “coffee break” every day for years, and then turned to the woman in tweed. “Professor Carleton, you believe class action suits are abused by overeager lawyers looking to make money, is that right?”

The professor nodded. “Absolutely, Jane. Class actions are supposed to provide closure for victims and pool together resources. But the system is being abused, and packs of lawyers are making off with the cash.” She sat up straighter, her face growing animated. “The plaintiffs in these classes usually get very little money, but the lawyers…” She nodded in the direction of Prince. “The lawyers are the victors who make millions and millions in fees.”

Jane went next for an opinion from the lawyer in L.A.

When he was finished, she turned away from the professor. “Now to Jackson Prince,” Jane said, “one of Chicago’s most influential attorneys who currently has liaison-counsel status in a suit against King Pharmaceuticals, the company that makes the arthritis drug, Ladera.”

I knew that Jane had interviewed Prince numerous times over the years, and as if there were a secret language between them, she looked at him and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, What do you think?

Prince smiled benevolently. “Jane, let me say that billions-literally billions-of dollars are ultimately awarded to consumers for restitution. Our class action system is the ultimate watchdog today.”

“Mr. Prince,” Jane said, putting her notes down, “let’s discuss the suit against King Pharmaceuticals.”

Prince gave a pleased nod. “We’re trying to get reparations from King Pharmaceuticals for injuries caused to millions who took Ladera.”

“Let me ask a question about getting into the suit. How do you confirm that people opting into the lawsuit have taken the drug?”

“It’s quite simple, actually. Patients provide pharmacy records showing they purchased it.”

Jane paused, seemingly very intrigued by something. “How do the patients know to contact you? In this case, for example, do you obtain medical records showing what patients were prescribed Ladera?”

Prince’s eyes narrowed, but only for a second. “Of course not. Medical records are confidential. Marketing campaigns are launched to inform patients of their potential case.”

“And what about those people who have taken the drug but didn’t have any side effects?”