Arthur Sterling was in an armed medical transport en route to the federal correctional hospital in Springfield, Missouri, his naval retirement pension permanently expunged, his name stricken from the rolls of the Department of Defense.
On the front porch of my brick bungalow, the broken window had already been measured and secured by a specialized military engineering crew from the 107th Battalion.
Sitting on the cedar steps in the afternoon sun, eating fresh peach slices from a wooden bowl, were Maya and Chloe.
They were laughing—a loud, untroubled, bubbling shriek of pure childhood joy as Barnaby chased a yellow tennis ball across the green grass of the lawn.
Standing beside the front door, wearing an unadorned cream linen work shirt and dark denim trousers, holding a steaming ceramic mug of fresh dark-roast coffee, was Clara.
She had a smudge of flour on her cheek from baking fresh sourdough bread for the federal investigators who had secured our perimeter.
