My phone chimed.
A number appeared.
No name.
Just a direct line with a D.C. exchange.
“Sir,” Laura said carefully, “with respect, who exactly—”
“Please do as I say.”
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
Then we turned around and went back in.
Security stopped us before we cleared the front station.
“He’s barred from the building.”
Laura held out her phone.
“Call this number.”
The guard frowned.
Then he dialed.
I watched his face shift while he listened.
First bored.
Then alert.
Then pale.
He straightened so fast his chair rolled backward.
“Yes, sir,” he said into the receiver. “Right away, sir.”
He hung up and stood.
“You may proceed to chambers.”
Laura and I walked through the corridor in silence.
Halfway there she leaned toward me.
“Who is your father?”
I swallowed.
“He works in federal justice.”
That was all I said.
It was true.
It was also not nearly enough.
Judge Harlan’s clerk tried to stop us outside chambers until Laura showed the number again.
Then we were let in.
Judge Harlan stood behind his desk.
My project was on the credenza behind him.
Not fully smashed.
Not intact either.
The casing cracked.
One sensor arm bent.
The hard drive still visible.
And the hammer laid casually beside it, as if he had put it down only moments before.
“This is becoming harassment,” he said.
Laura stepped forward.
“Your Honor, if you refuse to return Mr. Carter’s property, I am instructed to have you call this number personally.”
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