Two court bailiffs undid the straps on their leather holsters and took two fast steps toward the center railing.

“Weapon is clear and flagged, officers,” I said, keeping my left hand pressed on Bradley’s shoulder blade while my right hand stayed flat at my side.

Bradley groaned into the polished wood, his left cheek mashed against a loose sheet of draft court exhibits.

A smear of dark blue ink from a broken pen blotted onto his cheekbone while he struggled to catch his breath.

The page pinned right under his nose was an unredacted exhibit draft he’d left lying on top of his leather briefcase.