He reached out and touched the screen with one trembling finger, tracing the shape of his own name as though he could not believe it was there, as though it belonged to some other Richard in some other life.

For a long moment he could not speak at all.

I had not known, until that instant, what the drive would reveal about him.

I had guarded Julian’s evidence for ten years without ever cataloging every piece of it, without ever letting myself study the names of the insiders who had found the courage to testify.

I had not known that one of those names was my father’s.

And now we were both learning it together, in that quiet living room, the truth rising up out of a scrap of plastic to meet us.