Trevor dug into his jacket pocket with trembling hands, took out his key ring, and laid it on the polished table while his thumb drummed a fast, frantic beat against the leather strap of his gold watch.

The bailiff took the brass key ring right out of Trevor’s fingers before we walked out of Courtroom 3B.

By two o’clock a yellow work truck was parked in our driveway, and a cordless drill was whirring against the front doorframe.

“This deadbolt has a three-inch hardened steel throw,” the locksmith said, running his thumb over the polished plate.

“Nobody’s kicking this in without taking the whole frame along with it.”

My father stood in the front hall with his hands clasped behind his back, testing the solid doorjamb with his shoulder.