“I work in operations analysis,” I say. “My clients value discretion. The records exist. Your lack of access to them is not my failure. It is your limitation.”
A murmur shifts through the gallery.
Robert barks out a laugh.
“Discretion?” he says. “You were a paper pusher, Elena. A glorified clerk. Don’t try to dress up your laziness with big words.”
The silver phoenix pin on my lapel presses cold against my skin.
It is small. Matte. Easily mistaken for decorative jewelry if you don’t know what you’re looking at. Most people don’t. Judge Miller does, though he has not yet said so. I’ve seen his eyes catch on it twice already. He was a Marine colonel before he became a county judge. Men like that recognize insignia the way other people recognize church hymns.
I spent years in windowless rooms at Langley, at Fort Meade, in SCIFs with recycled air and no clocks, making decisions that shifted the borders of men’s certainties. I have coordinated extraction routes from countries my father can’t pronounce, read intercept summaries at 3 a.m. while local news anchors slept, and sat across from people whose names will never enter newspapers because if they do, other people die.