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Sometimes When TAT Seems Too Fast You Need to Step Back
The old man, with a face etched by years of legal battles, held his chin, his brow furrowed in a deep canyon of thought. "I will," he began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, "run this a second time. At no charge to you."
He leaned back in his worn leather chair, a wry, almost melancholic smile playing on his lips. "Again," he said, gesturing with a hand that had signed a thousand affidavits, "I am sorry to have given you such good service."
His client, a jittery young woman with a tangled nest of red hair, wrung her hands. "But... but..." she stammered, "the turnaround was so fast! I... I got worried."
A sigh escaped him, a puff of weary air. "Apparently," he mused, more to himself than to her, "it's not so good as it caused you concern, even after I explained the method." He rose from his chair, a man of quiet purpose. "So, as a comparison..."
He crossed the room to his computer, a bulky relic that hummed with a soft, persistent drone. His fingers, gnarled and thick, moved with a surprising nimbleness across the keyboard. He clicked the mouse. "I just Googled," he narrated, his voice a steady metronome against the soft hum of the machine, "Lake County, Illinois, court record."
He logged on, a series of quick, practiced motions. "Chose search by name," he continued, and his fingers danced again, entering the information. "Entered the name," he finished, and then, a pause, a moment of silence hanging in the air.
The screen refreshed. A clear result appeared. Less than a minute. He turned back to the young woman, a silent, eloquent question in his eyes. The clock on the wall, a ticking presence in the room, seemed to mock her concerns. The proof, clear and undeniable, was right there.
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