It went slack.

It went, for the first time in my life, afraid.

“Judge Espinoza?” my father said.

Chapter 12 — Judge Espinoza

Judge Espinoza was a federal magistrate and one of my father’s oldest friends — golf, fundraisers, the whole architecture of my father’s carefully built importance — and he walked up the frosted drive and right past my father’s outstretched hand as though it weren’t there.

“Ignatius,” he said, and his voice was grave and tired and entirely without warmth.