I stopped at the top of the subway stairs and looked him directly in the eyes.
“My wife is recovering from emergency surgery, and my sister is lying,” I said.
“If you have nothing to hide, why won’t you show us the baby?” he asked.
I turned and walked down the concrete steps into the humid warmth of the station, leaving him at the turnstile.
Julian’s office smelled of old paper and stale coffee when I arrived at eight o’clock that evening.
My friend adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses by the bridge and pointed to a stack of certified mail envelopes on his desk.
“It is worse than we thought, David,” Julian said, his legal monotone sounding heavier than usual. “The judge signed an emergency order this afternoon.”
“What kind of order?” I asked, sitting in the leather chair opposite him.
“A temporary restraining order,” Julian said, sliding a copy of the court document across the dark wood. “Your business operating accounts have been frozen.”
