The mahogany table in the center of the conference room had four deep scratches near the brass grommet where the phone cords ran.

Arthur sat opposite me, his shoulders square under a heavy tweed jacket that smelled of dry cleaning.

His attorney, a man named Cole with graying temples, kept his hands flat on a blue folder.

Detective Harris sat at the head of the table.

He laid three copies of my five-page signed deposition between us, the white paper bright against the dark wood.

“We are reviewing the statement Mara Bell completed on Monday afternoon,” Harris said.