I had interrogated hardened people in my career.

I knew the difference between the nervousness of the guilty-but-cornered and the ease of the guilty-but-certain-they’ll-walk.

The Langfords had the ease.

And as I stood there holding my shaking daughter while her tormentors smiled, I understood that their calm was not evidence of innocence, as they intended it to read, but evidence of exactly the opposite — of a pattern, a history, a family that had gotten away with cruelty so many times that getting away with it had become simply how the world worked.

My daughter’s fingers were tight on my sleeve.

Their smiles were easy.