“Vance,” Dominic said, shaking his hand. “This is Elena.”

Vance nodded to me, his eyes sharp and observant.

“You said on the phone you had something that couldn’t wait,” Vance said.

“We have the records of Caterina Valenti’s transactions with Judge Whitmore,” Dominic said, holding up the bundle.

Vance’s expression hardened, his eyes dropping to the ledger.

“And we have the physician who signed the forced psychiatric reports,” Dominic added. “She is in a safe house, ready to testify.”

Vance looked around the empty lobby, then gestured toward the stairs.

“My office,” Vance said. “Now.”

We followed him up the wide stone stairs and down a long, carpeted corridor.

The walls were lined with framed portraits of past prosecutors, their eyes watching us in silence.

Vance’s office was cluttered with boxes of files and half-empty coffee cups.

Dominic placed the ledger on the desk and unwrapped it.

Vance sat down, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and opened the book.

He began flipping through the pages, his eyes moving rapidly over the handwritten figures and bank routing numbers.