“Where is Bradley’s conveyance deed?”
“Your brother Harold and your reckless nephew Bradley are in federal transport chains at the holding facility in Miramar, Chief Justice,” I answered softly.
My voice had no microphone.
Yet it filled that twenty-foot concrete vault with forty decibels of pure, unyielding, polar diamond:
“The encroachment on my lawn was terminated four hours ago.”
“The communications logs have been decrypted by naval intelligence.”
“The sixty billion dollars in diverted defense reserves was frozen in Zurich.”
“The crushed marigolds, the sheared intake sensor, and the greenstone obelisk have been logged as physical evidence of high treason under Title Eighteen.”
“And I came to Washington to return your family’s conveyance petition.”
CHAPTER 4: THE AUDIT ON THE BLACK GRANITE
I walked down the twenty-foot center aisle of the West Conference Room.
My leather boots left dark, geometric tread marks across the greenstone floorboards:
*crunch… tack… crunch.*
