In the Wake of Truth
I told her about Connecticut, the colonial house with white trim and black shutters, the neatly trimmed hedges, and the two side gates no one noticed unless they were looking.
I told her about the nights he stayed there, the security’s lazy hours, and the black Ford Escalade he used to distribute drugs and transport ammunition, always parked exactly thirty-four feet from the front porch.
I gave her details only an insider could know about.
She didn’t interrupt while I spoke, not even for once. Only wrote, occasionally glancing at me as if testing the truth behind my very words.
When I finished, she closed the folder. “We’ll verify.”
“But let’s be clear about something,” she said. “You’re con
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