Then Julian stopped smiling.
Then he stopped tapping his pen.
Then he stopped breathing normally.
The judge read one page.
Then another.
Then returned to the first.
Her glasses slid lower as she examined the numbers.
She turned to the certification page.
Then to the registration records.
Then to the wire transfers.
Sweat appeared at Julian’s hairline.
His attorney leaned in and whispered something urgent.
Julian did not respond.
My mother’s confidence weakened first.
The corners of her mouth dropped.
Jasmine shifted so hard the courtroom bench squeaked.
Trent sat forward, both hands on his knees.
Judge Mercer lowered the pages, removed her glasses, and laughed.
The sound was sharp and incredulous.
The entire courtroom stiffened.
She looked straight at Julian.
“Attorney Julian,” she said, emphasizing his professional title as though she were pinning it to him for the last time, “do you intend to stand by this financial disclosure under oath?”
His face drained.
There are moments when a human being realizes the script is gone.
I watched that realization hit him in real time.
He cleared his throat.
