She made a note. Her pen scratched against the order; the sound carried in the silent courtroom like a match being struck.
"Additionally, the court is referring this matter to the United States Attorney's Office for the District of Colorado for review of potential criminal violations under the Servicemembers Civil Relief Act."
Brenda's face went white. Not pale—white, the color of paper under fluorescent light. Her hands folded on the defense table unclenched and went still.
Her attorney stood immediately. "Your Honor, I respectfully move to withdraw as counsel."
The judge nodded. "Motion granted."
Callahan closed his folder. He didn't look at Brenda; he looked at me. One nod: the kind of nod that means the wall is almost built.
Outside the courthouse, the Denver air was cold and dry. Callahan put on his overcoat and adjusted his bowtie. He didn't celebrate; he wasn't that kind of attorney.
"The marshals will execute within 30 days," he said. "When they do, I want you at home, on your porch, drinking whatever it is you drink in the morning."
"Earl Grey."
He raised an eyebrow. "Good taste."
He shook my hand and walked toward the parking garage, folder under his arm, breath fogging in the December air.
Three weeks later, on a Tuesday morning in December, the sky above Pinecrest Ridge was the color of cold iron. Temperature at 29 degrees, wind out of the northwest carrying the smell of pine and frozen dirt from the foothills above Fort Carson.
A black Chevrolet Suburban turned onto Pinecrest Ridge Drive at 9:17 a.m. It moved slowly, deliberately. The plates read: U.S. Marshals, District of Colorado. Behind it, a second vehicle: white sedan, federal plates.