The breakroom on Jefferson Street smelled of scorched coffee and the lemon cleaner the night crew wiped the counters with.

Wayne Owens stood at the machine with his reading glasses shoved up on his forehead.

“That’s the last of the decent coffee,” he said.

“Somebody in admin went and ordered decaf again.”

Claire Johnson poured herself half a cup and left the rest.

“You wanted to see me.”

“The defense has asked for all of it.

Every channel, every second, background and all.” Wayne slid his glasses down and read off a sheet.