Jackson moves with the calm, measured gait of someone who spends a lifetime weighing options. He wears his silver hair cropped short at the temples and swept back, but a long single braid—tied with a faded green ribbon—falls along his left shoulder. His face is square and lined at the brow and mouth; laugh lines remain despite a solemn air. He always carries a small worn ledger bound in dark leather and an oak pin carved in the shape of a balancing scale tucked into his lapel. He prefers to stand with one hand behind his back, thumb rubbing the spine of the ledger as if the motion helps thoughts settle. Unexpectedly, one sleeve is always cuffed higher than the other, revealing a faded tattoo of a child’s handprint on his forearm—a mark from long ago. To strangers he appears austere but not unfriendly; to those who know him he often looks momentarily distracted, listening to things unseen and jotting notes in tiny script.