And here I have to tell you that there was no cinematic finale to that evening, no swelling music, no moment of triumph.

What there was, instead, was paperwork.

Formal statements to sign.

Official reports to file.

The slow, tedious, deeply unglamorous administrative machinery of the law grinding into motion.

My mother had to tell her story again, and then again, to different officers, in careful detail, and that was without question the hardest part of the whole night for her, harder than the confrontation, harder than leaving the house.

Reliving it aloud, over and over, for the record, cost her something visible each time.