He looked, at long last, truly and profoundly afraid.

Outside the courthouse, the air was crisp and clean. A swarm of local reporters surrounded us, thrusting microphones forward, asking whether my father’s high military rank had inappropriately influenced the speed and severity of the case.

Dad stopped on the concrete steps and looked directly into the cameras.

“My rank opened no doors in that courtroom,” he answered, his voice a steady rumble. “The evidence did.”

He turned away from the press, placed a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder, and smiled down at me. “Ready to go home, Claire?”

I looked up at the sky, piercingly bright after a morning of heavy rain.