A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
“Who told you to put junior guards on that shift?”
Miller looked at Harmon.
Harmon looked at the wall clock, which ran eleven minutes fast.
“I reassigned the shift,” Miller said.
“That’s my prerogative.”
The stenographer kept typing, steady and unhurried, and nobody said anything else for a while.
At the recess, a young specialist carried in a pitcher and poured water into my cup until it overflowed.
I caught the spill in my palm and thanked her anyway.
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