Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name
At ten to ten the double doors of Room 204 swung open, and Clara walked me straight to the third row of wooden benches.
Donald sat at the oak table on the left, smoothing down the corner of a thick yellow folder.
Bob came in through the side door three minutes later in his dark gray Sunday suit, his brass key ring hooked through his belt loop.
He didn’t glance toward our row as he took his seat beside his lawyer.
County Commissioner Miller rapped his desk with a little wooden block, calling file number forty-six to order.
“We’re here to look at the disputed title for seventy-two Maple Street and the power of attorney that goes with it,” Commissioner Miller said, turning a page in his ledger.
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