Three days. He never once raised his voice. He just told the truth very plainly until the room had to listen. You're going to do the same thing.
Ulisses rode his bicycle home through the dark streets. In his backpack, three certified copies. In his breast pocket, Henry Walker's handkerchief. In his palm, the wooden cross from Eleanor.
The clock in the kitchen read 11:13 at night. He did not sleep. Day two in court began the way day one had ended with Bradford Sinclair speaking as if the boy at the defendant's table were not in the room. Sinclair rose, smoothed his tie, and addressed Wakefield in the rolling baritone he used for closing arguments.
“Your Honor, in the interest of judicial economy, the plaintiff moves for summary judgment. Mrs. Daniels's defense is frankly frivolous, sentimental, and embarrassing to all parties. The contract is signed. The transfer is documented. This child”—he gestured loosely toward Ulisses without turning his head—“is wasting taxpayer time. He should be in algebra class.” Wakefield nodded along the way. A man nods at his own thoughts.
“The court is inclined to agree. Counselor, if I may even use that word, do you have anything to say before this concludes?” Ulisses rose to his feet.
He had to lift slightly onto the balls of his shoes to bring his hands to the edge of the lectern. He set them there flat, square shoulders, lifted chin, voice dropped half an octave. “Mr. Sinclair, can you confirm for the record that Exhibit A is the foundational document on which your entire claim against Mrs. Daniels rests?” Sinclair, mistaking the boy's calm for deference, smiled wide for the gallery. “Of course it is, kiddo. It is an open-and-shut transfer. Now, if we can move on.”
“So you, as counsel of record, vouch for its authenticity without reservation?” Sinclair gave a small, irritated laugh. “Without reservation. May we proceed, Your Honor?” In the back of the gallery, Walter Ashbury, who had quietly slipped through the courtroom door five minutes earlier, nodded once, just once. Wakefield reached for his gavel. “Counsel, I think we have heard enough. The court is inclined to grant the motion for summary judgment.”
“Your Honor,” Ulisses said. He had not raised his voice, but it carried. The courtroom went quiet. “With respect, I have a single line of questioning that the record requires. Five minutes. If, after those five minutes, the court remains unmoved, I will yield.” Wakefield laughed dryly. “Five minutes. The clock is yours, counselor. Use them well. Your bedtime is at nine.” A few uncomfortable laughs from Sinclair's table. From the gallery, the young law student from the front row did not laugh.
She set down her pen. She had come to take notes. She was now watching a lecture she had not been prepared for. Behind the clerk's desk, Nathaniel Brooks turned to a fresh page in his small private notebook, page 143.