Loretta looked past him toward the oak tree. "Will Pamela be there?"
"Her office was invited. I don't know whether she'll come."
"Then I will."
"You don't owe anybody another public appearance."
"I know. But yesterday the deputy stood on this porch, and neighbors looked at me as though I had done something criminal. They know my face now. I'd like them to know my words too."
Darius considered arguing that the press might attend and the attention could be painful. Instead he asked what she wanted to say and whether she would like a few quiet minutes to prepare. She smiled at him with a hint of the teacher who used to make him practice a class presentation in the kitchen.
"I have been preparing for this for forty years," she said. "I think I know my opening sentence." The community hall filled long before seven. Folding chairs scraped across the floor as volunteers brought out another row, then another.
Some people arrived carrying folders like Loretta's; others came with nothing more than memories they had kept quiet for years. A retired bus driver sat beside a young mother whose savings account had been frozen after an insurance payment. Two men from the neighborhood church were helping older residents find seats. A woman with silver hair arrived holding a thick envelope against her chest, as if she feared someone might take it before she had a chance to speak.
The gathering was not an official bank hearing. Briggs had been careful about that. It was a community meeting where customers could tell their experiences, learn how to submit complaints through protected channels, and hear what the institution was prepared to acknowledge.
Martin had advised that private account records not be displayed without permission, that witnesses not speculate about criminal guilt, and that any video shown publicly be reviewed to protect customers who had not consented. Those precautions frustrated a few people who wanted an immediate reckoning. Loretta understood them. She knew the difference between being heard and being used for another performance.
At seven fifteen, Briggs stepped to the microphone. He wore a dark jacket, a blue tie, and the expression he used when delivering difficult news after a church service. "We're here because people in this neighborhood have been telling versions of the same story for years," he said. "Some had paperwork, some didn't. Some complained until they got tired, and some never complained because they didn't believe anyone would listen. Tonight is about putting those stories where they can no longer be ignored."
He did not mention Darius's title immediately. He introduced Loretta as a retired teacher, Thomas Johnson's widow, and a woman who had spent decades helping neighbors fill out forms they were afraid to misunderstand. A murmur of recognition moved through the room. Several former students were there, including a middle-aged woman who remembered Loretta staying after class to teach her multiplication when other teachers had decided she was simply not trying hard enough.