Marcus Vance’s law office sat between a dry cleaner and a poster framing shop.

The brass nameplate beside his door was dull and held on with two mismatched screws.

He was fifty, wearing a dark gray suit coat that looked stiff at the shoulders.

Before he said anything, he took three yellow legal pads from a tray and lined them up along the top edge of his mahogany desk until they formed a perfectly straight row.

“Sit down, Mrs.