Arthur drew back, his eyebrows knitting together behind his gold wire frames.

“What game are you playing?”

“It’s a formal demand for a trustee accounting,” I said, setting the heavy paper flat on the cover of his leather portfolio.

“Supported by a forensic audit of the 1979 scholarship trust.”

Arthur looked down at the blue ink heading, his pinky ring catching the light from the fluorescent ceiling.

“This is pointless noise.

I’m the sole managing trustee of the land grant.”

“Not since eleven o’clock Saturday morning,” I said.