He slid the stack of papers across the blotter with two fingers.

“Are you going to file a formal complaint with the police department across the street?” Mr.

Henderson asked.

“Not today,” I said, slipping the certified papers into my waterproof blue document folder.

The drive to Fort Meade took forty minutes on the highway, the truck’s engine humming evenly under the hood.

The military legal assistance office was in a beige brick building near the main parade field.

Captain Morales sat behind a plain steel desk stacked neatly with green case binders and white legal pads.