“Mr. Ashbury.”
Walter Ashbury leaned forward on the witness stand. “Yes, son.”
“I am placing into evidence Defense Exhibit One, a certified death certificate from the state vital-records office for Cornelius Patterson, the notary whose seal appears on the plaintiff's Exhibit A. Could you please read aloud for the record the name and date of death?” Walter took the document. He read it slowly, the way an old archivist reads anything that matters. “Cornelius Patterson. Date of death: eight months before the date stamped on the plaintiff's Exhibit A.” A murmur rolled through the gallery. In the back row, the reporter Sarah Mitchell drew a hard line through the words five-minute case on her notepad and started a new page. At the top of the new page, in capital letters, she wrote, “Holy hell.” At the plaintiff's table, Bradford Sinclair did not move.
Ulisses gave it three seconds, then continued. “Defense Exhibit Two, a certified record from the county surveyor's office. Mr. Ashbury, when was the parcel survey number cited on the plaintiff's Exhibit A first issued?”
“Eighteen months after the date on the plaintiff's contract, son.” Wakefield leaned forward in his chair. The smirk was gone. “You are testifying under oath that the survey number on Exhibit A did not exist on the date the document claims to have been executed?”
Walter Ashbury met the judge's eyes for the first time. “Your Honor, that is not opinion. That is the public record of this county. I oversaw it for 50 years.”
In the gallery, the Black mother from the front row, the one who had wiped her daughter's tears at the very beginning of all this, stood up. She did not clap. She did not speak. She simply stood, holding her daughter against her hip, watching.
Ulisses turned slightly. “Your Honor, with permission, I would like to direct a single foundational question to opposing counsel in his capacity as the certifying attorney of Exhibit A.” Wakefield, who had not picked up his gavel since the recess, simply nodded. “Permission granted.”