Dean flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his wool coat sleeve, his face tight and white.

“You think you proved something with those old photocopies, Vance.”

“I proved you signed your brother’s name on August fourteenth,” Vance answered, adjusting his rimless reading glasses.

By two that afternoon we were standing in the tall marble hallway outside Courtroom B on the second floor of the Oakhaven Courthouse.

The high double doors stood open, showing dark oak pews, polished brass railings and the state seal mounted on the plaster wall.

Judge Miller sat behind the tall mahogany bench, turning the pages of the forensic audit Vance had handed the clerk two hours before.