My heels echoed through the courthouse corridor in a steady rhythm.
That afternoon, I drove to Gran’s estate.
Gravel cracked beneath my tires as I followed the long driveway beneath oak trees she’d planted forty years earlier.
Their branches stretched overhead, forming a green tunnel.
During the previous two hours, Foss had begged me for mercy.
First by phone.
Then in person in the courthouse parking lot, his tie loosened and sweat running down his temples.
“Drop the criminal perjury push. Let the old man keep his business license. Let the family maintain whatever scraps of public dignity they had left.”
He wasn’t begging for Dad.
He was begging for himself.
The state bar had already been notified.
His own conduct was under review.
I parked and walked behind the main house toward Gran’s old wooden shed.
The hinges groaned when I pushed the door open.
