“He gave you two hundred dollars in cash,” I said, opening the folder to show her the bank wire trace and the time log.

“It was tucked under your blotter before you walked away.”

She swallowed hard and looked down to the end of the street, where a delivery truck sat idling.

“I have two little kids,” she said.

“Then sign the statement,” I said, taking a two-page draft and a black ballpoint pen out of my folder.

“Tell the truth about the ten minutes you left your desk unattended, or my lawyer sends this bank trace to the district attorney at nine tomorrow morning.”

She took the pen, her hand going steady as she pressed the paper against the door frame.