On Monday morning, I got a call from Marcus Cole. He did not usually call. He usually texted, or sent an email, or scheduled a meeting. But this time, he called.
"Jordan," he said. "I need to see you. Today. It's important."
I knew from his voice that something had changed.
I went to his office at 10 a.m. He was there waiting for me. He had a folder on his desk, the same folder as before, but it was bigger now, thicker, and there was something in his face that I had not seen before. Something that looked like anger.
"I found something," he said. "Sit down."
I sat down. He opened the folder. He pulled out a piece of paper and set it on the desk in front of me.
It was a consent form. I recognized it immediately. It was the form for Arthur Pendleton, the one I had photographed, the one
