The taller one had his right thumb hooked over his leather duty belt, right next to his holster.

My son Garrett came out of the corner legal office holding a single sheet of white paper.

He adjusted his silver wristwatch with two fingers before walking slowly across the carpet toward me.

“You shouldn’t have come in today, Dad,” Garrett said, his voice smooth and measured.

“This is my building,” I said, clearing my throat firmly.

“Tell these guards to get away from my door.”

Garrett raised the white paper and pointed to a red ink stamp in the top margin.