Doug froze like a deer in headlights. "Uh, we, uh... we're still gathering documentation."
The judge leaned back, unimpressed. "Gather faster, son."
Next, Mara called me to the stand. She guided me through my testimony: the daily trespassing, the broken signs, the Comic Sans letters. Every detail painted a picture of relentless harassment and absurdity.
When she played the trail-cam footage of Clare's SUV crashing nose-first into the trench, the entire courtroom erupted in laughter. Even the bailiff covered his mouth.
Clare slammed her fist on the table. "That's illegal surveillance!"
The judge barely looked up. "On private property, ma'am. Perfectly legal."
Then came Doug's turn for cross-examination—or as I like to call it, the comedy set. He marched up with shaky confidence.
"Mr. Rogers," he said, pacing. "Would you say you enjoy digging holes?"
The room went silent. I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Holes!" he said louder, like repetition would make it less stupid. "You seem to have an affinity for excavation."
Mara coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.
"Sure," I said dryly. "I dig a little now and then. Mostly when the land needs it."
"Aha!" Doug said, turning dramatically to the judge. "You admit it! You dig holes! Therefore, you possess both motive and opportunity!"
Judge Holloway stared at him for a long, painful moment. Then he said, "Son, are you trying to argue that owning a shovel is evidence of criminal intent?"
Doug deflated. "Possibly."