Judge Harlan leaned over his bench, squinting through his glasses to read the faded letters.

He read it once. Then he read it again. When he sat back, the sternness in his face had been replaced by something profound and devastating.

He looked at Grant. “Were you aware your son had written this inside his clothing, Mr. Bellamy?”

Grant looked physically ill, the polished veneer gone, just a small, terrified man in a very expensive suit.

“I… I may have seen it once. During a weekend visit.”

“He saw it,” Nolan cut in, his voice hardening. “I showed it to him because I was proud of it. But Dad got really mad. He said it was embarrassing. He said boys don’t write sappy, poor-people things.”