I walked out through the oak doors and stood near the top of the wide granite courthouse steps.

The late November air smelled sharply of wet autumn leaves and diesel from the gas station on the avenue below.

Gene came through the tall glass doors four minutes later, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his heavy brown overcoat.

He stopped two steps above me on the landing, his leather boots resting on the worn stone.

“Well, you got what you came for, Mara,” he said.

“I got the truth out,” I said.