The Burger King
PART II — THE PLOT TWIST

The room is different this time. Same table. Same chairs. But the Mapper’s board is covered with a sheet. The Clerk’s folders are closed. The Insider hasn’t moved since you sat down. Nobody has poured the coffee. The thermos cap is still on.

Badass and Good Looking is standing. Arms crossed. Not smiling. He looks at you. Not past you. At you.

“Dear Reader. Thank you for coming back.”

“We got something wrong.”

. . .

“Part I told you about the Burger King. Kenny Glavan. Council President. Hotel executive. DUI catcher. The man who silences citizens and votes himself richer. All of that stands. Every word.”

“The something wrong was a name. The something else? Leaked messages. From inside their camp. The Burger King’s own words — in writing, to third parties, while he was a named defendant in federal litigation.”

“We told you about his boss. Greg Stewart. The man who controls Lodging & Leisure Investments. We connected him to a federal extortion conviction — a disbarred attorney who paid a Tunica County deputy to make DUI cases disappear.”

Sun Herald — March 13, 2014 — Page A5

A pause.

“That connection was wrong.”

. . .

“You’re right. You told us.”

“No.”

Badass and Good Looking pulls the sheet off the Mapper’s board.

“The something wrong was the name. The something right was everything else.”

“This is the plot twist.”

The Clerk opens a folder. The sound is louder than it should be — the creak of the cardstock, the whisper of paper against paper. In a room this quiet, a folder sounds like a door opening. She doesn’t look at anyone. She speaks in filing dates.

“On April 2, 2026, attorney Tim C. Holleman — Board Attorney for Harrison County, defense counsel in our federal cases — contacted us. Unsolicited. Without being asked. Without any obligation whatsoever. Asserting we had the wrong Greg Stewart.”

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

The Insider leans forward. First movement since you sat down. Both hands flat on the table now.

. . .

Let that question sit in the room for a second. Because it is the question that changes everything.

“No client. No retainer. No professional duty. No engagement letter. The Board Attorney for Harrison County — on his own time, on his own initiative — contacts the people suing the city he works for to correct a newspaper article about a hotel developer he doesn’t represent, for a company that doesn’t pay him, on behalf of nobody who asked.”

“Why would he do that?”

. . .

“We investigated his assertion. He was right about the identity.”

“The disbarred attorney is Joe Gregory Stewart. Middle name: Gregory. Oxford, Mississippi. Disbarred 2004. Federal conspiracy to commit extortion under color of official right. Paid a sheriff’s deputy named Ferrell Hunter to skip DUI court hearings. Five cases dismissed. Three years probation. Twenty thousand dollar fine. Four reinstatement petitions. All denied.”

“Two Greg Stewarts. Same first name, same last name, same state, same industry. This is going to get confusing. So we’re giving them nicknames.”

The Mapper picks up a red marker. Writes on the left side of the board.

“The disbarred one — the DUI fixer from Oxford — he’s The Lawyer.”

Picks up a gold marker. Writes on the right.

“Glavan’s boss — the one who actually runs Lodging & Leisure, the one with the judgment and the abandoned casino — he’s The Developer.”

A thick black line down the middle. Two columns. Two Greg Stewarts. One board.

“The Developer is Gregory Scott Stewart. Middle name: Scott. Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Not a lawyer. Not disbarred. Different middle name. Different city.”

“Worse.”

The Mapper’s voice cuts across the table before the Advocate can finish. The pen in his hand taps twice on the board — hard enough that a pin drops. Nobody picks it up.

Mississippi Press — December 20, 1990 — Page 19

“We published a correction at the top of Part I. We said what we got wrong. We said why.”

“Credibility isn’t built by being right every time. It’s built by saying so when you’re not.”

. . .

The Mapper hasn’t moved. He’s staring at his board. The sheet is off now, and you can see — the strings are different. New colors. New connections. More of them than before.

“Clerk. Is that all?”

“No. That’s not even close.”

The Clerk pulls out a second folder. This one is thicker. It lands on the table with a sound — not a slap, but a weight. The kind of weight that comes from photocopies of court orders, stamped and dated and real. The Insider shifts in the dark corner. A chair creaks.

“The Developer. Gregory Scott Stewart. The one who actually controls Lodging & Leisure. The one who isn’t The Lawyer. The one who actually employs the Burger King.”

She opens it.

“Baldwin County, Alabama. Case CV-2009-900556. Charging order filed May 21, 2012.”

A document slides across the table to you.

You pick it up. The paper is heavier than you expected. Your thumb presses into the margin without meaning to, leaving a dent you’ll notice later.

“A court seized Gregory S. Stewart’s interests in twelve LLCs — including Lodging & Leisure Development, LLC.”

“Clerk.”

He says it like a one-word sentence. Like a door he’s holding open.

“How much?”

The Clerk doesn’t answer immediately. She looks at the document in your hands. Then she looks at you.

The number hangs in the room like smoke. Nobody moves. The Advocate’s pen has stopped.

“That’s a $6.6 million judgment against the man who pays Kenny Glavan’s salary.”

The Mapper pulls the charging order from your hands — you weren’t done reading — and pins it to the board. The pushpin goes through the corner of the page. The paper trembles once, then hangs still.

. . .

“And the casino.”

The Insider speaks for the first time. Three words. The chair in the dark corner creaks forward an inch. That’s all it takes. The room turns.

“Thirty thousand square feet. A Vicksburg casino property. Gregory Scott Stewart was the developer. An application was filed with the Mississippi Gaming Commission. GGB News reported it. The Vicksburg Post quoted Stewart by name. Plans submitted. Permits in motion. The works.”

“Standard Mississippi gaming process — under Miss. Code Ann. § 75-76-65, every principal of a casino applicant submits to a suitability investigation. A deep background check. Criminal history, financial history, associations, character. Every developer. No exceptions.”

“Stewart walked away.”

“Abandoned the project. Pulled the application. Left thirty thousand square feet of building to rot in Vicksburg rather than let someone type his name into a database.”

“Think about what that building is worth. Think about what a casino license is worth in Mississippi — it is the most profitable asset class in the state. Think about the man who builds a multi-hundred-million-dollar hotel empire along the entire Gulf Coast — Margaritaville, the White House Hotel, Hotel Legends, Paradise Pier — and then walks away from the single most lucrative real estate play in the state. Not because the deal fell through. Not because financing collapsed. Because there was a form. A form that would require his name. And he couldn’t fill it out.”

Silence. The fluorescent light flickers once and steadies. Your pen has stopped moving. You don’t remember when.

“Because he knew what they’d find.”

The Insider settles back into the shadow. A nod — barely visible — to no one in particular. As if confirming something only they can see.

“And this is not a small operation. The Sun Herald, August 4, 2019, identifies Lodging & Leisure as the parent company of Barrington Development. The documented portfolio includes the Margaritaville Resort Biloxi — 373 rooms. The White House Hotel. Hotel Legends. Centennial Plaza in Gulfport. The Markham Hotel in downtown Gulfport. The former Santa Maria tower. Paradise Pier Fun Park. And The Retreat.”

“And the city rolls out the carpet for him. Look.”

“Two Sun Herald front pages. The Developer presents to the DRC. Jerry Creel approves the expansion. On Beach Boulevard. The same building official who blocks other property owners on the same street green-lights Stewart’s projects with a quote and a smile.”

“Because Jerry Creel is the gatekeeper. He decides who builds and who doesn’t. He decides whose permits sail through and whose rot in a drawer. Stewart’s projects get DRC presentations and Sun Herald front pages. Our clients can’t get a CO for a building they already own. Same street. Same official. Different treatment. That’s not a policy — that’s a protection racket.”

“Creel got a raise for it. Behind closed doors.”

The Mapper steps to the board. Pulls a red string tight between two pins. The string hums.

“Here’s the part that matters for the federal cases.”

“When we investigated Greg Stewart — before we knew The Lawyer and The Developer were different people — Councilman Glavan didn’t call us. Didn’t email. Didn’t say, ‘Hey, easy mistake. My boss isn’t the disbarred attorney. That’s a guy from Oxford. Different middle name. You should correct that.’”

“That’s what an innocent person would —”

“Instead.”

The Mapper doesn’t let him finish. He reaches into the Clerk’s folder — she watches but doesn’t stop him — and pulls out a printout. A screenshot. He holds it up between two fingers like a playing card. Then sets it face-up on the table in front of you. The ink is still sharp. You can smell the toner.

“That’s Glavan. In writing. To third parties. About our investigation.”

The Clerk slides it across to you. You read it yourself. Not because you need to — because you need to see it in his words. His phrasing. The way the sentences run together without punctuation, like someone typing angry, typing fast, not thinking about who might read it later. You are reading it later. You are that someone.

Another pin. Another quote.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Protected. Verified. Authenticated. Straight from the horse’s mouth. The messages are real, Advocate. And they’re in our possession.”

“Authenticated. Verified. And Glavan has never denied sending them. Under Federal Rule of Evidence 801(d)(2), a statement by a party-opponent is not hearsay. Glavan is a named defendant in Petrini & Fusco v. Glavan et al., No. 1:26-cv-00094-HSO-BWR. His own words are evidence against him. They don’t need a named source. They need a named defendant. And we have one.”

. . .

“He knew. He knew there were two Greg Stewarts. He knew we had the wrong one connected to the disbarment. And instead of correcting a factual error — something that would have taken one sentence — he called the investigation “lies,” attacked the journalists, and mobilized the Harrison County Board Attorney to transmit unsolicited communications to a federal plaintiff.”

“No. That’s how people respond when an investigation — even one that got a name wrong — is getting too close to something they need to protect.”

The room absorbs this. Nobody argues. Even the Advocate is quiet — not because he agrees, but because he can’t find the angle. When the Devil’s Advocate goes silent, you know the argument has changed shape.

“But that’s not the worst of it. Because while Glavan was calling us liars, he was also handing us something he didn’t mean to.”

The Clerk holds up one more document. She reads it the way you read a verdict — slowly, letting each word carry its own weight.

“In those same messages, Councilman Glavan wrote: ‘The Greg Stewart that owns Lodging & Leisure.’”

She sets the paper down. Looks at the table.

“Owns.”

“Not Lori Stewart. Not any nominee. Not any LLC veil. Greg owns it. Kenny Glavan said so. In writing. While he was a named defendant in federal litigation.”

“Everyone knew.”

Two words from the dark corner. No inflection. No emphasis needed. The kind of sentence that lands like a door closing.

“And he’s not alone.”

“Tim C. Holleman. The man dispatched to dispute us. His own email: ‘Greg Stewart the ex lawyer is not the same Greg Stewart that owns the hotels to my understanding.’”

The Mapper draws a line under one word on each printout. The same word. Taps the board twice.

“Two adversaries. Two separate communications. Both reached for the same verb. Not manages. Not is associated with. Owns. The one verb that blows the corporate veil wide open.”

“Greg Stewart [The Developer] is the owner. Lori Stewart is the front. The Secretary of State filings show Greg as Managing Member, Manager One, Contact Member, sole signatory.”

“Nowhere.”

. . .

The board is full now. Every string connects to something. Every name leads to another name. The pattern is no longer emerging — it has arrived. And it is uglier than anyone in this room expected.

But the Clerk isn’t done. She has one more folder. And this one is dated today.

The Mapper hasn’t sat down. He’s still at the board. He pulls a new color of string from his pocket. Black. He’s never used black before.

“One more thing. We corrected the identity. The Lawyer — the disbarred one, the DUI fixer — is not The Developer — the one who owns Lodging & Leisure. We stand by that correction.”

“But there’s a question nobody has answered.”

“The Times-Picayune article. June 24, 2018. A Pulitzer-caliber newspaper. It explicitly says: ‘Greg Stewart is a principal with Lodging and Leisure Investment LLC.’ — that’s The Developer. Same article: ‘The Mississippi Bar Association disbarred Stewart in 2004 after he pleaded guilty to extortion.’ — that’s The Lawyer.”

“That article is still live. Eight years later. Never corrected. Never retracted.”

“Sure they do. And when a newspaper publishes that you’re a convicted felon — when it connects your name and your business to a federal extortion plea — what do you do?”

“Exactly. That’s what any innocent person would do. An article calling you a convicted felon, connected to your business by name, sitting on the internet for eight years — that’s not something you ignore. That’s not something you let slide. Unless the correction would draw attention to something worse.”

. . .

“The Developer has never asked NOLA.com to correct it. Lori Stewart has never asked. Lodging & Leisure has never asked. And The Lawyer — the one whose actual disbarment is being attributed to someone else’s business — has never asked either. In eight years, not one person connected to either Greg Stewart has picked up the phone and said, ‘You’ve got the wrong one.’”

The black string runs from one name to the other. Not a connection — a question mark. A dotted line between two men named Greg Stewart who both orbit the same enterprise and neither one wants to explain why.

“They know each other.”

The room stops. The Insider doesn’t elaborate. The Insider never elaborates. But the implication fills the space like smoke.

“And there’s one more thing.”

The Mapper pulls a newspaper printout from under the board. Not a Sun Herald. Not a Times-Picayune. The state capital newspaper.

“Clarion-Ledger. Jackson, Mississippi. February 4, 2001. Front page. Quote: ‘Greg Stewart, commander of the University City Greys of the Sons of Confederate Veterans’ — pushing to keep the state flag. An Oxford SCV camp.”

“Two independent newspapers. The Times-Picayune connects a ‘Greg Stewart’ to both Lodging & Leisure and a disbarment. The Clarion-Ledger places a ‘Greg Stewart’ in Oxford — the same city as the disbarred attorney. Two data points. Neither one proves they’re the same person. But neither silence has been corrected.”

“For the record: we corrected the identity because the evidence supported the correction. But we note that the silence from the Stewart side — eight years of silence while a Pulitzer-caliber newspaper calls you a convicted felon — is itself a data point. Innocent people don’t let that stand.”

“People with something to hide do.”

“We’re saying we corrected a name. We have not closed an investigation. And when two people named Greg Stewart both orbit the same hotel empire on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and neither one wants to explain the other — that’s not a coincidence. That’s a pattern.”

. . .

The Insider stands up. First time all night. The chair scrapes the floor. The room goes completely still.

“I have something.”

The Insider reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a single folded page. Worn at the creases. Opens it. Sets it flat on the table.

“Sun Herald. May 3, 1998. Personnel File. Career Moves.”

Nobody speaks. The Mapper is already at the board, pulling a string from a new pin. His hand is shaking — not from nerves. From adrenaline.

“The Bailey family. They owned the Coast’s Holiday Inn properties through the 1990s. Asher Travis, corporate controller, is named in multiple Sun Herald articles as their financial officer. Glavan was hired by Gulfshores — not by Stewart. He was a Gulfshores employee.”

“Now look at the address. Interstate 10 and U.S. 49. Holiday Inn Airport.”

He pulls out a second document. Holds it up next to the first. One from a newspaper. One from a court.

“Mississippi Supreme Court. Miss. Bar v. Stewart, 890 So. 2d 900. The disbarment order. Stewart’s listed address —”

“Same hotel. Same address.”

“Not at first. The chain is documented. May 3, 1998 — Sun Herald Personnel File: Gulfshores Inc. hires Glavan to manage both Holiday Inns. August 27, 1998 — Sun Herald Business: ‘Gulf Shores Inc., which owns the hotel.’ Gulfshores still the owner. That same month — Joe Gregory Stewart’s extortion scheme concludes. He was paying Ferrell Hunter, a Tunica County deputy, $100 per case to dismiss DUIs.”

“Post-2000 — Stewart purchases the Holiday Inn from Gulfshores. 2004 — Stewart disbarred. His address on the disbarment order: the same hotel. 2008 — Holiday Inn sold. The Mississippi Supreme Court confirmed the ownership in four separate reinstatement opinions: ‘Stewart operated a hotel that he and his wife had purchased.’ ‘Moved his family to Gulfport and purchased a Holiday Inn hotel.’”

“And Glavan came with the building.”

. . .

“And then Glavan moves to The Developer’s empire. Gregory Scott Stewart. Lodging & Leisure. A different Greg Stewart. With his own six-point-six-million-dollar judgment. His own abandoned casino. His own reasons to avoid a background check.”

“Glavan is the only person on record who has worked for both Greg Stewarts. He is the bridge. He managed The Lawyer’s hotel while the owner was committing federal extortion. Then he moved to The Developer’s hotel empire — the one with the $6.6 million judgment and the casino he abandoned.”

“Two unrelated hotel owners in the same city don’t independently hire the same general manager. Either one referred him to the other, or they are associated through the industry network, or there is a business relationship that has not been documented.”

“And consider this: you don’t sell a hotel without involving the man who manages it. Due diligence. Inventory. Staff. Operating history. Revenue books. When Gulfshores sold the Holiday Inn to Stewart, Glavan was the general manager. He would have been in the room. He would have met the buyer. He would have known exactly who was signing the check — and exactly what that person had been convicted of.”

“And when Glavan sent those DMs — ‘completely different Greg Stewart’ — he was speaking from personal knowledge of both men. Acquired through direct employment. With both of them. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t mistaken. He was concealing the connection that his own career represents.”

“Because of what he saw while he was there.”

“He managed the hotel while the owner was paying a sheriff’s deputy to fix DUI cases. He was the general manager. He handled the books. He ran the operations. What did he know? What did he see? What was happening inside that building that makes Kenny Glavan — thirty years later — still desperate to pretend he never worked there?”

“People don’t run from connections. They run from what the connections reveal.”

“Sun Herald, December 31, 1997: Kenny Glavan identified as President of the Coast Hotel-Motel Association. Sun Herald, May 2002 — four newspapers confirm he still holds the title. Linda Hornsby is identified as executive director of the Gulf Coast Hotel & Lodging Association — paid staff, working under Glavan’s presidency.”

“December 1997 to April 2026. Approximately thirty years as president of the industry trade association. With paid staff. That is not volunteering. That is a three-decade entrenchment in the industry his Council votes protect.”

“And the pattern doesn’t just span thirty years. It repeats.”

“February 21, 1998. AP wire. Ran in five Mississippi newspapers the same weekend — Sun Herald, Mississippi Press, Vicksburg Post, Hattiesburg American, and the Clarion-Ledger in the state capital. Quote: ‘The Gulf Coast Hotel-Motel Association opposes any hotel on the Coliseum grounds, said association president Kenny Glavan.’”

“December 2015. The same man — now Council President — casts the deciding vote killing the only proposal to expand short-term rental access in Biloxi.”

“Same man. Same title. Same anti-competitive conduct. Twenty-eight years apart. Published from the Coast to the Capital.”

. . .

The Insider sits back down. The chair doesn’t creak this time. The room is silent in a different way now — not the silence of waiting, but the silence of understanding. The kind that follows when the last piece slides into place and the picture it makes is worse than anyone imagined.

“Thirty years. Same man. Same industry. Same associations. Same conflicts. He didn’t fall into this. He was built for it.”

“One more thing. Today is April 7th. Tonight, the Biloxi City Council holds the first reading of an ordinance to retroactively legalize the building permits for The Retreat. First reading tonight — then a vote.”

“The Retreat. The same property The Developer abandoned rather than submit to a gaming commission background check. The permits on that property were approved by Jerry Creel — the same Jerry Creel who can’t seem to find a certificate of occupancy for anyone who isn’t in Stewart’s orbit. The same Creel this Council voted a salary increase behind closed doors after silencing the citizens who came to object.”

“They didn’t just approve permits that shouldn’t exist. Tonight the first reading begins the process to retroactively legalize them. To make the paperwork match the corruption after the fact. That’s not governance. That’s a cover-up in real time.”

“And this isn’t the first time. Monarch Villas by Elliott Homes. Corner of Motsie and Popps Ferry Roads. A single-family subdivision approved in a Planned Development – Commercial (PD-C) zone where single-family homes are not allowed. The ordinance requires a minimum of 5 acres for any PD-C district — Section 23-3-4, hard requirement. Monarch Villas sits on 1.51 acres. Requires 20% open space — provides 10% at best.”

“Community Development Director Jerry Creel, backed by City Attorney Peter Abide, sent the developer to the BZA for a variance. But the BZA can only grant variances for standards in Section 23-6. The minimum district size is in Section 23-3-4. The BZA had no authority to grant that variance. Creel told them it was OK.”

“On the record. October 1, 2024, City Council meeting. Councilman George Lawrence objected. Abide responded: ‘They applied for a variance. It was advertised, there was a public hearing… and at that point, they had a variance, since no one appealed it.’”

“And then Glavan: ‘So things were done properly, rules were followed, and I don’t think we need to hold this up in more red tape to encumber the developer further… and I would ask my colleagues to kind of see it for what it is and support this.’”

“See it for what it is. He said it himself. See it for what it is. A Council President protecting developers from accountability — the same developers who pay his salary. Creel approves what can’t be approved. Abide provides the legal cover. Glavan delivers the votes. That’s not a government. That’s a cartel.”

“And here is the irony that should make your blood boil. Under Mississippi Code § 17-1-27, criminal prosecution is authorized for zoning ordinance violations — and only zoning violations. The statute applies to ‘any person’ who ‘knowingly and willfully’ violates a zoning ordinance. The LDO’s own definition of ‘person’ includes ‘government official’ and ‘any other person who participates in, assists, directs, creates, or maintains a condition that results in or constitutes a violation.’”

“Creel approved a single-family subdivision in a commercial PD zone on 1.51 acres where 5 acres is the hard minimum. That is a zoning violation. He created it. Under 17-1-27, that is a criminal misdemeanor.”

“Meanwhile, they criminally prosecuted our plaintiff — not for a zoning violation, but for a building code issue. Building codes are Title 17, Chapter 2. A completely different chapter. No criminal penalty provision. Section 17-1-27 doesn’t apply to building codes. They prosecuted a citizen under a statute that doesn’t cover the charge — while the man who commits actual criminal zoning violations sits in his office approving more.”

“They use the law as a weapon against citizens and a shield for themselves.”

. . .

“You’d be surprised.”

“We’re telling you to watch the vote tonight. Watch who votes. Watch who doesn’t recuse. And then come back to this article and read it again.”

“Because the man who works for the developer. The man who presides over the Council. The man whose salary depends on the enterprise that benefits from the approval —”

The Mapper pins a red string from Glavan’s photo to The Retreat on the board. The pin scratches cork — a small, sharp sound, like a match striking. The overhead light flickers once. Nobody looks up. You do.

“He’s going to vote.”

The Devil’s Advocate stares. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Somewhere in the dark corner, the Insider exhales.

“He silenced a citizen at the podium and told him to leave. He had a journalist physically removed from a public meeting. He calls the investigation ‘lies.’ He wanted it his way. This is what his way looks like.”

This article was published at 5:00 PM on April 7, 2026 — before the Biloxi City Council convened at 6:00 PM. The vote had not yet occurred.

You stand. You didn’t plan to. But you’re standing now, looking at the board, and for the first time you can see all of it at once. The red strings. The gold strings. The photographs pinned at angles. Glavan’s face. Stewart’s name. The Retreat. The LLCs. The judgment. They don’t look like separate facts anymore. They look like one thing. One shape. And you can’t unsee it.

You sit back down. The metal chair is colder than before.

Walks back to the head of the table.

“So let’s count.”

“Part I. The conflict of interest.”

“Council President. Hotel salary. Trade association chair. Deciding vote. Fifty percent rate climb.”

“The correction. Two Greg Stewarts.”

“Part II. The real one.”

“Six-point-six million. Twelve LLCs seized. A casino abandoned. A background check refused.”

“A thirty-thousand-square-foot building left to rot because the truth was worth less than the concrete.”

“And a Council President who could have said three words — ‘wrong middle name’ — and instead called us liars, deployed a lawyer, and prayed no one looked deeper.”

. . .

“I know.”

“The correction didn’t kill the story.”

. . .

The Mapper’s pen stops mid-connection. The room holds. Nobody breathes.

. . .

The Mapper turns back to the board. The new strings are all in gold. Money strings. He pulls one taut between two pins — Glavan to Stewart to The Retreat — and lets it hum. The sound is thin and tight, like a wire about to snap.

The Clerk closes her last folder. The clasp clicks shut. She sets her pen down — parallel to the folder’s edge, exact, the way she does everything.

“Dear Reader. You walked into this room tonight because a text message told you to. You sat down. You listened. You held documents in your hands that connect a sitting Council President to a convicted felon through a hotel sale he pretends never happened.”

“Now you carry it out that door. You show it to every person who thought the correction meant we were done.”

“Because this isn’t a retraction.”

“This is Act II.”

“And in Act II, the villain doesn’t get weaker.”

“He gets worse.”

. . .

The room is quiet. The overhead light buzzes — you never noticed it before, but it’s been buzzing this whole time. The Mapper steps back from the board. The Clerk closes her last folder. The Insider hasn’t moved, but you can feel them watching.

The Clerk slides the last folder across to you. You didn’t ask for it. She didn’t say anything. She just pushed it across the wood and let go. Your hands are on it now. It’s yours. You carry it out that door.