“I have to be in two places at eight tomorrow morning,” I said.

“You can’t march into Judge Reynolds’s courtroom in combat gear,” Arthur said.

“It’ll look like an armed disruption.”

“I’m not asking for their permission anymore,” I said.

“I’m presenting the federal record.”

By six that evening I was standing in the concrete supply room of the base armory on Elm Avenue.

The armorer hoisted my heavy Kevlar tactical vest onto the wooden counter, then my ballistic helmet and duty belt.

Next to the armor lay my desert camouflage uniform, freshly pressed, the gold lieutenant commander’s leaf pinned neatly to the collar tabs.