The one who stayed in contact.
The one who kept showing up.
I placed the final page on the clerk’s desk and returned to my seat.
Dad refused to retreat.
He couldn’t.
The moment Judge Okafor began reading the satellite records, something changed behind his eyes.
His mask slipped.
The rage he’d hidden beneath expensive suits and country club smiles broke loose.
Foss saw it coming.
He reached for Dad’s arm.
Dad shook him off.
Then he slammed both palms against the plaintiff’s table.
The crack echoed through the courtroom.
He surged to his feet, knocking his chair backward into the wooden railing.
The chair hit the floor hard enough to make the court reporter jump.
Then Dad put on another mask.
Not the powerful patriarch.
The wounded father.
His chin trembled.
His eyes filled with manufactured tears.
He pointed a shaking finger directly at me.
