“While I was fixing the plumbing in Martin’s study,” he said. “I found his personal router password written on the bottom of his desk drawer.”

He smiled a little, though his eyes remained serious.

“He never thought a handyman would look there,” he added.

We parked in a public lot across from the government complex.

The courthouse was a massive stone building with tall concrete columns.

We ran through the rain, covering our heads with our jackets.

Inside, the lobby was quiet and smelled of wet wool and floor wax.

We walked through the metal detector.

A security guard checked my father’s ID and nodded us through.

We took the elevator to the third floor.

The hallway was lined with dark wood doors and frosted glass.

At the end of the hall, a gold sign read: *District Attorney – John Vance*.

My father pushed the door open.

A receptionist sat behind a high counter, typing on a black keyboard.

“Daniel Whitaker to see John,” my father said.

She looked up, recognized him immediately, and picked up her phone.