Crawford took out the box of cards and read a name on the top one. "Malcolm Owens. Well, look at that. Got yourself business cards."
The card had a title beneath the name. Crawford's thumb covered part of it, and he never moved his hand to read it. He flicked the card into the gravel and lifted another folder before tossing it back so roughly that the case tipped against his leg.
Several sheets slid from the open briefcase and scattered across the lot. A page containing Malcolm's introductory office schedule settled beneath the front tire. Another landed in a shallow puddle left by the overnight sprinklers. The leather notebook struck the ground and opened, exposing a page on which Malcolm had written a line from a speech he once gave to graduating law students: Power is most dangerous when the person exercising it forgets why it was given.
"Pick those up," Elijah demanded.
Crawford turned slowly. "What did you say?"
"Those are his things. You threw them in the dirt. Pick them up."
Crawford walked toward him. He did not hurry; he had learned to make his approach feel inevitable. "One more word and I'll put you in cuffs. Resisting, disorderly conduct, interfering with an investigation. We can choose which one sounds best in the report."
Malcolm felt the old anger rising, familiar and useless as a warning bell that nobody else could hear. He looked at Elijah's face and saw their father there, not in the shape of his features but in the effort to stand upright without giving an angry man a reason to draw a weapon. He wanted to tell his brother that the law would eventually answer what was happening, yet the morning had already demonstrated how little comfort an eventual answer could provide.
"Elijah," he said quietly. "Look at me."
His brother turned his head. "He can't keep doing this."
"I know."
"Then why are we standing here?"
"Because we're getting through it. One minute at a time."
Crawford spat on the gravel near Malcolm's shoe. "Hear that? Listen to your big brother, boy. He seems to understand his place."
The word struck Malcolm with the force of something older than the parking lot or the county. He remembered Nathan sitting behind the wheel of the family car after being refused dinner, waiting until his boys stopped asking why before starting the engine. He remembered the cases in which witnesses described being called the same word by people who claimed they had been joking. He understood its purpose perfectly: to strip away adulthood, citizenship, and dignity with a single syllable.
Malcolm did not answer. He fixed his eyes on the tree line beyond the road and kept his palms on the hot metal. Crawford mistook the silence for victory.