Nathan’s face went the color of old paper. “Her witness was a notary,” he said, “It’s all in the file.” I slid the court-stamped filing across the table and opened it to the first page. “Then you won’t mind explaining why the notary named on this note died fourteen months before the date you wrote on it.” Patricia’s hand froze on her briefcase. Andrew finally lifted his eyes, and for the first time in nine years I saw real fear in them.

Nathan stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. “That’s a clerical error,” he snapped. Then the doorbell rang, three firm knocks. Through the glass I saw my attorney, Ms. Ortiz, beside two uniformed officers holding a folded warrant. Patricia whispered, “Who called them?” I opened the door, and Ms. Ortiz stepped inside holding a small recorder. “Actually,” she said, looking straight at Andrew, “he did.”