Arthur stood at the head of the long mahogany table, rubbing his heavy gold signet ring with his thumb as he shuffled a pile of blue legal folders.

Six church elders sat in the tall velvet chairs alongside two town council members who dealt with local zoning disputes.

“You’re five minutes late, Tom,” Arthur said, not lifting his eyes from his papers.

“I was at the cemetery with Wade,” I said, laying my briefcase flat on the table near the brass recording microphone.

Arthur twisted his pinky ring twice and picked up a polished wooden gavel from its felt pad.

“We aren’t gathered here to talk about personal grief,” Arthur said, his voice loud and steady across the silent room.