Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
Marcus pulled his cuffs further down, his knuckles white. “He said if I didn’t help him, he would talk to the sheriff about the lawnmower that went missing from his clinic last spring. I didn’t take it, Rachel. I swear. But my dad has a record, and the sheriff would believe Dr. Miller over me.”
“I know you didn’t take it,” I said. “And David cannot prove you did.”
“He has money,” Marcus said. “People like him can say whatever they want.”
“Not if we have it in writing,” I said.
We walked out the back door of the diner and through the alley to the small lawn behind Karen’s office. The autumn sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the wooden picnic table in the center of the yard.
Karen was already waiting for us. She had a blue clipboard in her hand and a small black stamp on the table.
“Hello, Marcus,” Karen said. “Rachel tells me you want to help us.”
Marcus stayed near the gravel path, his hands still hidden in his sleeves. “I don’t want to get into trouble with the law.”
