The same technique used to keep your hands steady when everything around you was exploding.
Emotion could wait.
Now I needed discipline.
On the morning of the trial, I walked into the federal courthouse at 7:15 a.m., forty-five minutes before proceedings began.
I wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, civilian clothing cut with military precision.
I carried one leather briefcase.
Inside was everything I had spent three months assembling in secrecy.
Judge Patricia Okafor took the bench at exactly 8:00.
Among federal attorneys, she was famous for having zero tolerance for courtroom theatrics.
Three attorneys had faced contempt hearings before her during the previous year alone.
Her reputation was surgical—precise, cold, and merciless toward anyone who wasted her time.
Across the aisle, Dad and Gerald Foss settled behind the plaintiff’s table like men who believed they had reserved front-row seats at an execution.
Dad adjusted his cufflinks.
Foss carefully arranged his documents.
