“He came to the hospital parking garage on Thursday evening and demanded that I tell the police Caleb was at my apartment from seven until midnight.”

The stenograph machine made a rapid, clicking sound as the woman’s fingers flew over the keys.

“And why did you refuse to provide that statement?” the prosecutor asked, stepping closer to the podium.

“Because it was a lie,” I said.

“Caleb was not there.

He has spent his entire life expecting other people to clean up the things he destroys, but protecting one child doesn’t mean sacrificing somebody else.”

The prosecutor opened the top blue folder and drew out a glossy black photograph showing the underside of a car bumper.