He looked soaked from the rain.

He held a leather folder under his arm.

Everyone turned to look.

The man walked straight down the center aisle.

He stopped at the wooden gate separating the gallery from the counsel tables.

“Your Honor,” the man said.

“I have an urgent filing from the state banking commissioner.”

“Regarding the Hartwell accounts.”

The man in the dark coat stepped forward, his boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.

He handed the leather folder to the bailiff, who passed it up to Judge Harrison.

I watched the rain run down the collar of the man’s coat, dripping onto the carpet.

Carter shifted in his seat beside Vance, his fingers twitching against the edge of the mahogany table.

Vivian sat perfectly still, her chin tilted upward, though her eyes followed the leather folder.

Judge Harrison opened the folder, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose.

The courtroom was quiet except for the steady, dull hum of the air conditioner and the rain against the glass.

“This is from Commissioner Sterling’s office,” the judge said, his voice level.