HE HAS THE APPELLATE IMMUNITY!
HE CONVENES THE COURT AT ZERO-TWO-HUNDRED HOURS!”*
She lunged toward her designer handbag resting on her desk, clawing for her encrypted satellite transceiver:
*CLACK.*
Scout did not wait for a command.
The eighty-four-pound Belgian Malinois moved in an explosive, two-hundred-millisecond linear blur:
His jaws clamped around the leather strap of Ms.
Harrow’s handbag with one hundred and forty pounds of crushing hydraulic force, ripping the bag from her grip and pinning it flat against the floorboards beneath his paws with a deep, menacing, sixty-cycle subterranean growl:
*grrrrrrr.*
Before Ms.
Harrow could pull back, two armed federal marshals stepped through the doorway in fluid, synchronized mechanical velocity:
Their gloved hands caught Ms.
Harrow by her tweed lapels and her right wrist in mid-flight, spun her frame one hundred and eighty degrees against the whiteboard, and drove her face down onto the chalk tray with three hundred pounds of linear kinetic leverage:
