“It’s nine eleven.”

He had on clean jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and his hands were out of his pockets for once, resting flat on his knees.

I had a folder with the temporary order for the Elm Street house, nine pages long, the judge’s signature running off the bottom of page eight.

“Marcus said he’d meet us inside before the bailiff calls the case,” I said.

“I don’t need Marcus to tell the truth.”