He had been a prosecutor for twenty years, and he had tried ninety-three cases, and he had won eighty-seven of them, and the eighty-seven wins had made him the most successful prosecutor in the state’s history, and the ninety-three cases had left him with ninety-three boxes of evidence, which he had kept, in the basement of his house, which was a basement that his wife had insisted was for storage but which he had been using, for twenty years, as the archive of his work, and which the ninety-three boxes were what he looked at, on the night he retired, which was a night in October, when he was sixty-two and when the state attorney general had asked him to stay on for another term and when he had said no, for the first time in twenty years, and which the saying no was what he did, on the night he retired, which was also the night he opened the first box, in the basement, and which the first box was the box from the first case, which was a case from twenty years ago, and which the case was about a man named Harold Wren, who had been accused of embezzlement, and who had been found not guilty, and who had been the first case that David had lost, and which the losing was what he was thinking about, on the night he retired, when he opened the box, and found, inside it, not the evidence that had been used at trial but evidence that had not been used, and which the not been used was what he had forgotten about, for twenty years, and which the forgetting was what he was regretting, on the night he retired, when he read the file and understood what the evidence showed, which was that Harold Wren had not been guilty, and which the not guilty was what the trial had found, but which the not guilty was wrong, and which the wrongness was what the evidence showed, and which the showing was what the evidence had always done, in the box, in the dark, in the basement, for twenty years, waiting to be found, waiting to be read, waiting to tell the truth that he had missed, in the trial, because he had been too focused on the winning to see what the evidence actually showed, and which the showing was what evidence always does, when it is finally read, and which the finally was twenty years later, in his basement, on the night he retired.

He spent three days in the basement. He read all ninety-three boxes. He found, in the reading, the specific thing he had been looking for without knowing he was looking for it, which was the evidence that he had missed, in the cases he had won, and which the missing evidence was of two types. The first type was the evidence that had been suppressed, by the defense, in ways that were legal and that he had not challenged, because the challenging would have taken time and would have risked the winning, and which the risking was not something he had been willing to do, in the cases, because the winning was what he was in the job for, and which the the job was what he had been doing, for twenty years, and which the doing was what made him successful, and which the success was what he was known for, and which the known for was what he had built his reputation on, which was the eighty-seven wins, and which the wins were what he had kept the boxes for, without knowing why he was keeping them, and which the why was what he understood, on the third day in the basement, which was that he had been keeping them because he knew, on some level, that the keeping was necessary, and that the necessary was what the boxes were for, and which the for was what he was now doing, which was reading them, on the night he retired, when he finally had the time, and the distance, and the willingness to see what he had not been willing to see, when he was in the trial, and when the winning was what he was focused on, and when the evidence that could have changed the outcome was in the box, waiting, in the basement, for twenty years.

The ninety-three cases contained, in total, forty-seven pieces of evidence that he had missed, or suppressed, or not looked at closely enough to understand. Twenty-three of the forty-seven were evidence that would have changed the outcome in cases where he had won. Fourteen were evidence of prosecutorial misconduct by his own office, in cases that he had not personally prosecuted but that had been tried by attorneys who worked for him. Ten were evidence of witness coaching by police officers in cases where he had used the officers’ testimony to win. The forty-seven pieces of evidence were not, individually, enough to overturn the convictions. The aggregate was what was overwhelming. The aggregate was what showed a pattern, and the pattern was what David had been building, for twenty years, without knowing he was building it, which was a pattern of a prosecutor who was so focused on winning that he had stopped caring about the truth, and which the truth was what the evidence was supposed to serve, and which the serving was what he had stopped doing, somewhere in the second year of his tenure, and which the the second year was when he had learned that the winning was what the office rewarded, and which the rewarding was what shaped the prosecuting, and which the shaping was what created the pattern, and which the pattern was what he found, in the boxes, on the third day in the basement, on the night he retired.

He did not销毁 the boxes. He could have. No one knew they existed. The evidence was his, in the legal sense, and the keeping was his decision, and the decision to keep was not the same as the decision to disclose, and which the disclosing was what he was considering, on the fourth day, when he called his old friend Marcus, who was a journalist at the Washington Post, and who had been asking him, for fifteen years, for the story of what really happened in the cases he had prosecuted, and which the really was what Marcus wanted, and which the wanting was what journalists want, and which the wanting was what David had been refusing, for fifteen years, because the refusing was what prosecutors do, when they have something to hide, and which the hiding was what he had been doing, in the boxes, in the basement, in the twenty years, and which the twenty years was what he had been doing, and which the doing was what he was now finished with, and which the finished was what he told Marcus, on the phone, on the fourth day, which was that he was finished, and that he had something to show him, and that the showing was what he was ready for, and which the ready was what he had not been, for twenty years, and which the not ready was what the boxes were for, and which the for was what he understood, now, which was that the boxes were not evidence of his success. They were evidence of his failure, and which the failure was what he had been keeping, all along, and which the keeping was what he was now done with, and which the done with was what he was showing Marcus, on the fourth day, in the basement, with the ninety-three boxes, and with the forty-seven pieces of evidence, and with the pattern that he had built, without knowing he was building it, and which the building was what he was, for twenty years, and which the years were the time it took, to build the pattern, and which the taking was what he had done, and which the done was what he was now showing, and which the showing was what he called Marcus for, and which the calling was what he did, on the fourth day, and which the day was what he had left, in the basement, with the boxes, with the evidence, with the truth, and which the truth was what he had found, in the reading, and which the found was what he was now ready to show, and which the showing was what he did, on the fourth day, and which the doing was what he was, at the end, which was a prosecutor who had kept the evidence, and which the keeping was what the boxes were for, and which the for was what he now understood, which was that the keeping was not for the winning. It was for the truth. And the truth was what he had been avoiding, for twenty years. And the avoiding was what the boxes documented. And the documenting was what the boxes did, in the basement, for twenty years, waiting, in the dark, to be found, and to be read, and to be shown, by the prosecutor who had kept them, and who had finally come down to the basement, on the night he retired, to see what he had.