I put the sealed cashier’s check in my inside coat pocket and zipped it closed.

Frank was sitting at a little corner table in a quiet coffee shop across from the Oak Park courthouse when I walked in at four.

He had two white china mugs of peppermint tea waiting, along with a thick paper bundle held together by a heavy binder clip.

“The process server’s scheduled for eight sharp tomorrow morning,” Frank said as I sat down.

He undid the clip and slid the top document over to me.