The alarm clock went off at 6:30. Raymond Cooper reached out with his right hand and turned it off before it could make the second sound. He had learned, over eighteen years, that the first sound was sufficient to wake him and that the second sound was merely redundant.

He sat up in bed. The apartment was cold. The heating system in the building on East State Street had been broken since October, and the landlord had promised to fix it "next week" for the past six weeks. Raymond pulled the blanket around his shoulders and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The floor was cold. He put on his slippers.

The kitchen was three steps from the bedroom. He filled the kettle with water from the tap, set it on the stove, and waited. While the water heated, he stood at the window and looked out at the street below. A truck drove past, slow, its tires making a sound like gravel being crushed. A dog barked somewhere. A man in a dark coat walked down the sidewalk with his head down, hands in his pockets.

The water boiled. Raymond put a tea bag in a mug and poured the water over it. He waited three minutes, then drank the tea. It tasted like water. It always tasted like water.

He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He shaved. He chose a shirt from the closet: grey. The collar was frayed, but it was clean. He chose a pair of dark trousers. He put on his shoes.

At 7:00, he left the apartment and walked to the bus stop.

The bus arrived at 7:15, exactly. Raymond tapped his transfer card and found a seat by the window. He sat down and watched the city pass. Closed shops. Chain-link fences. A billboard for a company that had gone out of business three years ago, the image faded by sun and rain into something abstract and almost beautiful.

The bus ride took twenty-two minutes. Raymond counted the stops because counting made the time pass more quickly. Twenty-two stops. He always counted twenty-two.

The Mahoning County Courthouse was a grey stone building on Washington Street, constructed in 1932 during the Depression, when the federal government paid for buildings that were meant to last longer than the economy. Raymond worked on the second floor, in the Clerk's Office, at Window 4.

He had worked at Window 4 for eighteen years. Before that, he had worked at Window 2 for four years. Before that, he had worked in the Records Department for two years. He had been twenty-two years old when he started, fresh out of high school, looking for something stable. He had found stable.

The courthouse opened at 9:00. Raymond was at his desk at 8:45. He turned on his computer. He checked his email. There were three messages, all automated: a reminder about a filing deadline, a notice about a policy change, and a message from HR about the upcoming holiday schedule.

At 9:01, the first person arrived at Window 4.

She was an older woman, maybe seventy, with a handbag that had seen better decades and a court summons in her hand. Her case was a foreclosure. She had not paid her property taxes for two years because her husband had been sick and the medical bills had taken priority. Now the county was taking her house.

"I don't understand," she said, placing the summons on the counter. "I've lived here for forty years. I've paid my taxes every year until—"

"I understand, ma'am," Raymond said. "But the form is incomplete. You need to file a hardship exemption before the end of the month."

"Can you help me with that?"

"I can tell you where to get the form. I cannot help you fill it out."

He handed her a paper. She took it with trembling hands and said thank you, and he said you're welcome, and she left.

Next was a young man, maybe twenty, wearing a jacket that was too thin for the weather. His case was a theft charge. He said he was innocent. His public defender, a woman with dark circles under her eyes and a stack of files under her arm, told him to plead guilty because it would mean a shorter sentence.

"I didn't do it," the young man said, looking at Raymond through the plexiglass.

"I believe you," Raymond said. But he did not believe him. He believed nothing. He was a clerk. He processed forms. He did not judge guilt or innocence.

He stamped the form. He handed it back. He said: next.

The day continued in this pattern. Traffic accidents. Small claims. Family disputes. Evictions. Child support modifications. Probate filings. Each person had a story, and each story was different, and Raymond heard fragments of them all: a wife who had been cheated on, a son who had stolen from his mother, a landlord who had refused to repair a heating system in the middle of winter, a worker who had been fired for being late three times.

Raymond processed each case with the same methodical efficiency. He checked the forms for completeness. He stamped the documents. He filed them in the appropriate tray. He handed them back to the person at the window.

Next.

At lunch, he ate a sandwich at his desk. Peanut butter. He had brought it from home. He did not eat at the cafeteria because the cafeteria was loud and the people in the cafeteria talked about things he did not want to hear: sports, politics, the weather.

In the afternoon, he was sorting through a stack of files that had been returned from the judge's chamber. These were cases that had been decided, and the physical copies were being returned to the archives.

One of the files stopped him.

It was a civil case, filed six months earlier. The plaintiff was a small business owner who had sued the county for wrongful seizure of his property. The defendant was the Mahoning County Sheriff's Office. The judge had ruled in favour of the defendant.

But as Raymond was sorting through the documents, he found something that should not have been there: a bank transfer record. It was tucked inside the judge's order form, almost invisible, and it was clearly an error. Someone had accidentally included a copy of a financial document that belonged in a different file.

The transfer was from a construction company to an account in the judge's name. The amount was fifteen thousand dollars. The date was three months before the ruling.

Raymond stared at the document. He read it three times. The numbers did not lie. The account was in Judge Richard Halstead's name. The money had come from a company that had been involved in at least five cases before Halstead in the past two years.

Raymond sat at his desk and stared at the transfer record for ten minutes.

He thought about what he could do. He could take the document to his supervisor. He could take it to the sheriff. He could take it to the newspaper.

He thought about doing none of those things.

He was a clerk. He processed forms. He did not judge guilt or innocence.

He placed the document back in the file. He put the file in the archive tray. He stamped the tray with the date.

Next.

At 4:30, Raymond clocked out. He took the bus home. The ride took twenty-two minutes. He sat by the window and watched the city pass. Closed shops. Chain-link fences. The billboard.

He made dinner: pasta with tomato sauce. He ate at the kitchen table. He washed the dishes. He watched the news for thirty minutes. A politician was speaking about economic recovery. A sports anchor was discussing the Steelers. A weatherman was predicting rain for the weekend.

At 10:00, Raymond went to bed. He lay in the dark and listened to the building settle. The pipes groaned. The floor creaked. Somewhere, a neighbour was watching television.

He thought about the transfer record. He thought about Judge Halstead, sitting in his chambers, reading newspapers and making decisions about people's lives. He thought about the construction company, writing cheques and getting favourable rulings in return. He thought about the small business owner, whose property had been taken and whose lawsuit had been dismissed.

If I could do something, he thought.

Then he turned over and went to sleep.

The next morning, the alarm clock went off at 6:30. Raymond reached out with his right hand and turned it off.

He sat up in bed. The apartment was cold.

He made tea. It tasted like water.

He took the bus. Twenty-two stops.

He arrived at Window 4 at 8:45. He turned on his computer. He checked his email.

At 9:01, the first person arrived.

A man in his forties, wearing a suit that had been out of style for five years. His case was a debt collection. He owed money to a bank. The bank wanted to seize his car.

"I can't lose that car," he said. "I need it for work."

"I understand, sir," Raymond said. "But the form is complete. The judgment is final."

"Can't you do anything?"

"I can tell you where to get legal assistance. I cannot do anything."

The man looked at him for a moment, something like anger in his eyes, then nodded and took the paper.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was flat. He did not sound like he meant it.

"You're welcome."

Next.

Raymond processed the form. He stamped it. He filed it. He handed it back.

At 2:17, he read the newspaper. Judge Richard Halstead had retired. The headline was small, buried on page seven: "Judge Halstead Retires After 22 Years on the Bench." The article mentioned his career, his education, his family. It did not mention the transfer record. It did not mention the fifteen thousand dollars. It did not mention the small business owner whose property had been seized.

Raymond folded the newspaper and put it in the recycling bin.

He processed three more cases. He stamped three more forms. He said next three more times.

At 4:30, he clocked out. He took the bus home. Twenty-two stops.

He made pasta. He ate at the kitchen table. He washed the dishes. He watched the news.

At 10:00, he went to bed.

The next morning, the alarm clock went off at 6:30. Raymond reached out with his right hand and turned it off.

He sat up in bed. The apartment was cold. He put on his slippers.

The kitchen was three steps from the bedroom. He filled the kettle with water from the tap. He waited for the water to boil.

It tasted like water.

The bus arrived at 7:15. He tapped his transfer card. He found a seat by the window.

The courthouse opened at 9:00. Raymond was at his desk at 8:45.

At 9:01, the first person arrived at Window 4.

He stamped the form. He handed it back.

Next.