“The charges belong to the state now, Mother,” I said, keeping my voice level and quiet.

“It’s completely out of my hands.”

“It is not out of your hands,” Beatrice said, twisting the fabric until the lace tore at the seam.

“You brought those recordings.

You brought that paper.

Tell the judge you made a mistake.”

My father stood ten feet away by the brass drinking fountain.

He adjusted his gold cufflinks twice, his hands moving with careful control, but he didn’t step forward.