They booked me under a fake middle initial, like that would keep the world from finding me. Miller’s hands shook as he inventoried my purse, his pen stuttering when the gold seal of the United States District Court slid into the fluorescent light. The message from my Chief Judge—“FBI MOVING TODAY ON PELL COUNTY—CONFIRM YOUR SAFETY”—might as well have been a grenade. The front doors burst open on cue, agents in windbreakers spilling into the lobby, and for one dizzy second Voss believed they’d come for me. Then they walked right past my holding cell and straight into his office. File cabinets rolled out like coffins. Hard drives were bagged and tagged. Miller, pale and sweating, produced that blue Dollar General notebook he’d hidden in his locker for eight months, the one where he’d written down every order that made his stomach turn. Traffic stops with no tickets, just cash. “Medical transports” that ended in signatures on quitclaim deeds. And then the entry he’d underlined three times—the night they took Hattie Mae Greene’s pills, her land, and, three days later, her li… Continues…