“You’ll want a lawyer who isn’t from here,” he said.

“That’s the only advice I’ll give you for free.”

Downstairs at ten past ten, the cafeteria smelled of burnt toast and lemon cleaner.

Marcus Hale had two cups in front of him and no interest in either.

“The dark one is yours,” he said.

“The other is what they call coffee in this building.”

I sat down.

My chair leg scraped, and he didn’t move his notebook out of the way.