“That would take a written request from the account administrator.” He smoothed his tie down flat.

“Or a court order.”

He went into the back a second time and came out holding a manila folder he didn’t open.

“Two minutes,” he said.

“I’m trusting you here.”

He laid it open and turned it so I could read the top page.

The applicant’s name was typed in a font that didn’t match the rest of the form.

Under authorized signer, a signature sloped across the line, and it wasn’t mine, though somebody had clearly practiced it.