She nodded slowly.
“But I can promise we'll examine the evidence carefully.”
For several seconds, she studied me.
Then she smiled faintly.
“That's more honest than what most people tell me.”
Before leaving, I met Jordan.
He was twenty-four, tall, and visibly angry.
He showed me the towing paperwork.
The receipts.
The correspondence with the county.
And photographs of his tools inside the impounded truck.
“I wasn't asking for special treatment,” he said.
I nodded.
“I understand.”
“I just wanted them to tell me what I'd done wrong.”
The words stayed with me.
Because months later, standing beside my SUV in a gold gown, I would ask almost exactly the same question.
And Mercer would respond by shoving me against the hood.
Jordan looked toward his grandmother.
Then back at me.
“They keep telling us to be patient.”
His jaw tightened.
“Meanwhile, they're trying to take everything.”
I watched him for a moment.
Then asked, “What do you want to happen?”
He answered immediately.
“I want the truth.”
I nodded.
“Anything else?”
He hesitated.
Then looked toward the farmhouse.
“I want Grandma to stop being afraid to open her mail.”
That was the moment the case became personal to me.
Not because I intended to favor the Carters over other witnesses.
But because the young man's answer revealed the human cost behind the financial records.
A family wasn't merely disputing a property offer.
They were living with the fear that every official-looking envelope might contain another problem they couldn't afford to solve.
When I returned to Birmingham that evening, I called my mother.
She asked how my day went.
I told her I'd met a retired teacher.
She laughed.
“Was she difficult?”
I smiled.
“Very.”
My mother sounded pleased.
“Good.”
Then she asked, “Did you listen to her?”
I looked toward the case notes on my desk.
“Yes.”
My mother nodded, as though she could see me.
“Then you're doing your job.”
Months later, on the highway, I remembered that conversation while Mercer pressed me against my own car.
Because the issue wasn't whether he respected my title.
It was whether he believed the woman standing before him deserved an explanation.
And for that reason, I knew we couldn't allow the investigation to end simply because federal agents had rescued me.
We had to go back.
To the Carters.
To Daniel Ruiz.
To LaToya Benson.
To every person whose complaint had been dismissed before anyone with a powerful title became involved.
And we had to determine whether Ashford County's deputies had been enforcing the law or helping powerful people use it as a weapon.