“He’s picked up people for a lot less than this.”
Miller remained silent.
Voss swaggered into his office and slammed the door. Through the glass, I saw him lounge in his leather chair, boots on his desk, and reach for his phone.
Then my government phone buzzed again inside the purse in Miller’s hands.
Miller studied the purse. After hesitating, he followed procedure and he unzipped it to inventory the contents and find my ID.
He removed my wallet and opened it.
Then he removed the black leather credential case tucked behind it.
Sus dedos se congelaron.
Era un sello de oro con un águila, y debajo de él las palabras Tribunal de Distrito de los Estados Unidos, Distrito Norte de Georgia, con mi fotografía y nombre: La Honorable Amara J. Whitlock, Juez de Distrito de los Estados Unidos.
He paled and reread it.
“Judge Amara Whitlock?” he whispered. “United States District Court?”
