Loretta felt a familiar heat beneath her ribs, an anger older than the room and older than the man in front of her. When she was nineteen, a landlord had called her difficult for asking why her security deposit was twice the amount charged to a white couple down the hall. When she was thirty-six, a school administrator had called her emotional after she requested new reading materials for classrooms that had been neglected for years. She had learned that speaking plainly could become an accusation when the person listening had already decided she belonged beneath them.
"I have a question," she said. "If you believe the check is false, will you tell me which feature is wrong? The routing number? The issuing account? The administrator's authorization?"
"I don't answer to you."
"I'm your customer."
"You are a customer under review. There's a difference."
He picked up the check and began folding one corner between his fingers. The movement was almost casual. Loretta's eyes followed it. She had protected the paper from rain, creases, and careless handling. He seemed to find amusement in her anxiety.
"I would like the check returned," she said.
"We retain suspicious instruments."
"Then give me a written receipt stating that you have retained it."
He laughed. It was the wrong request for the performance he intended to give. A receipt meant a record. A record meant that somebody could one day ask why a branch manager had taken lawful property from a customer. Instead of answering, he stood and pulled the office door open.
"Let's make this clear to everyone," he said.
Barnes moved into position as Harlon escorted Loretta back into the lobby. His hand pressed her elbow, not hard enough to leave a mark but firmly enough that she felt guided rather than accompanied. She stopped once and withdrew her arm. He looked mildly offended, as though she had violated an unwritten rule by insisting on walking under her own power.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, lifting the check toward the crowded teller line. "For your security, I want to demonstrate how we handle a questionable document."
Loretta stood beside him. She could feel the outline of the Bible inside her purse, the edges of the tax notice against her gloves, and the terrible awareness of twenty strangers studying her face. She told herself not to cry. She had promised Thomas once that she would never let pride stop her from doing what was necessary, but this was not the kind of necessity either of them had imagined.
"That is my settlement check," she said. "It has not been verified because you refused to verify it."
"There you are," Harlon said to the room. "Always a story. There are people who want to come into a respectable bank and leave with money they haven't earned."
He looked directly into Loretta's eyes. "An old woman like you doesn't belong in a bank. You belong outside asking strangers for handouts."
Nina made a sound and pressed her hand to her mouth. A customer near the rope line whispered, "Did he really just say that?" Harlon smiled, pleased to have an audience, and placed both hands on the check.
"Please don't," Loretta said.
He tore it. Then he folded the halves together and tore them again, until small pieces floated from his fingers onto the marble. He stood back and admired his own gesture as though he had just completed an excellent piece of work.