The same hands that had patted Lauren on the shoulder like a trained pet.
Foss stumbled backward from the table.
His legal pad fell from his hands, scattering pages across the aisle.
The gallery filled with whispers.
The court reporter began typing rapidly.
A U.S. marshal near the rear door shifted his stance and rested a hand near his belt.
I stepped forward once.
No drama.
No noise.
Just the presence of a senior prosecutor who had dismantled fraud networks, cross-examined witnesses in military tribunals, and stood in courtrooms where the stakes were measured in decades of prison time.
Dad seemed to shrink.
His shoulders folded inward.
His expensive suit suddenly looked too large for him.
Then I removed another document from the folder.
Gran’s handwritten letter.
Her cursive was shaky, written by a woman whose body was failing while her mind remained clear.
The paper was thin and slightly yellow.
