In the hallway, he paced, rifling through the briefcase again, checking his jacket, his pants. Nothing. His heart thudded in his throat.
He leaned against a column and forced his mind to replay the morning: apartment, car, drive, stop—
“The woman. The tire,” he whispered.
He saw it clearly: placing the briefcase on her passenger seat, reaching in for the rag, never closing it properly.
He checked the time. Twenty-two minutes until the hearing resumed.
He raced downstairs, asked for the staff parking lot, flashed his ID, and lied: he’d left his keys in a judge’s car.
“Name of the judge?” the guard asked.
He hesitated. “Young woman. She was in Room 2B this morning.”
After a brief radio exchange, another guard led him to sublevel two, where a dark gray Mazda sat.
“There,” the guard said.
Daniel recognized the tiny grease stain on the trunk. His.
“I just need a quick look. It’s urgent,” he said.
The guard watched, skeptical but silent, as Daniel opened the passenger door and slid his hand under the seat. Nothing. He felt along the rails until his fingers brushed something hard and plastic.
A blue USB with a white label: Vid Jenna 12 Sep.
His pulse kicked. He thanked the guard and sprinted upstairs.