“They gave me twenty minutes to get my clothes,” Cole said.

His voice was flat, with none of its old booming authority.

“The wardrobe boxes are already on the truck,” my father said, stepping forward.

“Your personal clothing was delivered to your sister’s apartment in Queens this morning.”

Cole ignored my father and looked straight at me.

“The bank froze all my personal accounts,” Cole said.

“The federal prosecutor is filing bank fraud charges tomorrow morning based on the signed signature card from December twenty-first.”

I held the framed photo against my side and didn’t answer.