Whitmore,” his attorney whispered, leaning closer to him.

“We should review the timeline of the truck maintenance again.”

Arthur did not answer him.

He kept his eyes on his own knuckles, his thumbs pressing against each other until the skin turned white.

I reached down and touched the edge of my purse, feeling the outline of my car key through the fabric.

I had parked three blocks away in a public lot, choosing a spot under a streetlamp even though the sun was already high.

The door at the end of the ante-room opened, and a bailiff with a silver badge stood in the frame.