I squinted at the screen from across the aisle.

The caller ID displayed the name of the chief administrator of the Westbridge Fertility Clinic.

Then, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom swung open once more.

Julian Morris walked through the double doors, his face pale and his coat damp from the Denver sleet.

Behind him stood two state troopers in gray uniforms, their leather duty belts creaking with every step.

Julian carried a thick, blue legal folder and a black flash drive.

He did not look at his father’s old clinic associates; he looked straight at Samuel Greene.

Samuel stood up, adjusting his glasses, and stepped into the center aisle to meet him.

“Your Honor,” Samuel said, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the gallery.

“This is Julian Morris, son of the late Dr. Morris of the Westbridge clinic.”

“He has the mirrored server backups from the off-site facility in Boulder.”

Margaret’s head snapped toward Julian, her teeth clenched so hard I could hear the click from my seat.

“This is administrative harassment,” Margaret said, her voice dropping an octave.