He shifted his duty belt with a dull creak of leather and leaned over to me.

“The assistant DA wants five minutes with you before the judge comes out,” he said.

“I’m ready,” I said.

The prosecutor, a tall woman with silver hair drawn into a tight bun, leaned over the wooden railing.

She pointed at the black leather binder on my lap.

“Did you bring the original log entries?” she asked.

“Every time stamp from the night of November fourth is typed up and cross-referenced,” I said.

“The hard drive from the garage unit is sealed in the clerk’s pouch.”