"They can claim whatever they want to the appellate clerk," I said, my voice hoarse from two hours of reading inventory numbers into the record. "The machine cache doesn’t lie about network origins. A hardwired teletype terminal in Queens doesn't forge an executive IP address routed through the state capitol's third-floor switchboard."
Hendricks pushed open the heavy exterior door, letting in the sharp, clean bite of early winter air. The morning slush on the court house ramp had frozen into grayish ruts under a sky that had finally turned pale blue above the brick rooflines of downtown Albany.
At the curb sat an unmarked Ford sedan with state exempt plates, its tailpipe puffing thin white clouds into the cold. Leaning against the front fender was Marcus, holding a cardboard tray with three paper cups of black coffee. He looked smaller without his navy polyester ticket agent vest, wearing a borrowed civilian windbreaker that was two sizes too large across the shoulders, but the gray exhaustion around his eyes had loosened into something quiet and upright.
"You're done?" Marcus asked, offering a cup toward my right hand. "The clerk signed the docket?"
"The clerk stamped the master index into evidence ten minutes ago," I said, taking the warm paper cup. The heat soaked through the cardboard into the joints of my fingers, which were still cramped from gripping the brass handles of the subpoena folders. "Judge Harris issued a bench warrant for the deputy commissioner five minutes after we matched the truck plate to his assigned garage stall. The county sheriff’s office served it at his townhome before he could reach his private car."
Marcus let out a slow breath that fogged against his glasses. He pulled them off, wiping the lenses with the hem of his shirt. "My station manager called me twenty minutes ago on my personal cell. He told me the airline’s corporate office in Chicago wants me on an administrative conference call at three this afternoon. He said the legal division is reviewing whether I violated terminal security protocol by pulling the spool without a supervisor's keycard."
Hendricks stepped between Marcus and the sedan, leaning his forearm against the roof of the car so his gold shield caught the hard morning light. "Tell your station manager that Sergeant Ramos and I took physical possession of that printer roll under an active felony preservation order. If anyone in Chicago tries to penalize an hourly agent for complying with an on-site command from the Port Authority police, they can explain that policy to the state attorney general during tomorrow morning’s deposition. You didn't leak customer data, Marcus. You preserved a crime scene."
Marcus looked down at the slush around his boots, then nodded once, firmly. "He offered me a reassignment to the quiet gates out on Concourse D. No priority counters. No corporate standby desks."
"Take it for now," I said gently. "Concourse D handles the puddle-jumpers to Burlington and Syracuse. Nobody with an eight-digit municipal contract rides those twin-props. It's clean work, Marcus. You don't have to look over your shoulder every time a suit walks up to the podium with a voucher stamped in red."
We stood by the curb in silence for a minute while a pair of county transport cruisers rolled past, their low-frequency sirens chirping twice as they turned into the judicial sally port to deliver the custody packets. The sound was brisk, routine, and devoid of the theatrical panic that had filled the galley of Flight 2140 four hours earlier.
"What happens to Miller?" Marcus asked, glancing toward Ramos.
"Miller is sitting in the annex cell at Terminal 2," Ramos answered, tossing his empty cup into an iron municipal bin by the door. "His brother-in-law won't be bailing him out. Vance's personal accounts were frozen by the comptroller’s enforcement division thirty minutes after Cole stepped up to the bench. Miller is looking at three counts of official misconduct and one count of criminal tampering with public records. He'll probably plead out to a misdemeanor if he names the courier’s contact in the dispatch room, but he’s never touching an airport terminal badge again."
Hendricks opened the rear door of the sedan. "Get in, Arthur. We’ll drop you at the state office building so you can file your physical report with the chief auditor before the press bureau gets wind of the warrant."
I shook my head, stepping back onto the brick sidewalk. "The chief auditor has the certified copies on his screen right now. I don't need to sit under fluorescent tubes for the rest of the day watching clerks argue over filing cabinets. I'm taking the train home."