There was a heavy metal table bolted to the center of the floor and two plastic chairs.
Nothing else.
“Give me the master key,” Miller demanded, holding out his gloved hand.
“This box contains federal evidence,” I reminded him, my mind racing through the protocols I had memorized decades ago.
“The FBI issued a direct order ten minutes ago to seize this container due to a hazardous biological contamination,” Miller lied, his eyes darting nervously toward the locked box.
I knew he was lying.
If there was a biological threat, the courthouse would be immediately locked down, alarms would be sounding, and a hazardous materials team would be present.
More importantly, the FBI did not have jurisdiction to seize state evidence mid-transit without a signed federal warrant from a magistrate.
“If the FBI requires this box, they can present their warrant to Judge Sullivan,” I replied.
Miller cursed under his breath, raising his baton.
Just as he stepped forward to strike the lock, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy wooden door.
Miller froze.
I felt a sudden rush of hope.
Someone had noticed the disruption.
“Yeah?” Miller called out, keeping his weapon raised.
The lock clicked from the outside, and the heavy door slowly pushed open.
Brenda Vance stepped into the holding room.
She was wearing the beige trench coat I had seen draped over her chair at 7:30 that morning.
Her face was pale, and she was clutching a cheap, prepaid cellular phone tightly in her left hand.
I let out a heavy breath, relieved to see the senior administrative supervisor.
“Brenda, thank God,” I said quickly. “Officer Miller has lost his mind. He’s trying to intercept—”
“Is it open yet?” Brenda interrupted, her voice trembling but sharp.
She did not look at me.
She kept her eyes entirely fixed on the black security box resting on my cart.
The relief in my chest instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, heavy sinking sensation.
She stepped fully into the room and pushed the heavy door completely shut, locking it firmly behind her.
Brenda was not there to rescue me.
She was part of this.
“He won’t give up the damn key,” Miller complained, gesturing toward me with his baton.
“We don’t have time for this, David,” Brenda snapped, her professional demeanor completely stripped away by panic.
She tapped the burner phone aggressively against the metal table.
“The Mayor’s office needs the original documents destroyed before the preliminary hearing at noon. If Judge Sullivan sees that file, we are all going to prison.”
I stared at her, my mind connecting the morning’s strange anomalies with terrifying clarity.
The early arrival.
The disabled elevator.
The red asterisk on the manifest.
They were working for the Mayor’s office, trying to bury the embezzlement evidence before it could officially enter the court record.
“I need that key, Arthur,” Brenda said, finally turning her anxious gaze toward me.
“You’ve known me for twelve years. I don’t want you to get hurt. Just put the key on the table and walk away. We will say you were ambushed in the hallway by an unknown assailant.”
I looked down at my worn orthopedic shoes, thinking of my late wife.