Kendrick exhaled. Just once. Quiet. Then he walked toward Courtroom B.
Belmont's lawyer was already at the table when Kendrick walked in. Taylor Hanson, 38, Yale Law, top 5%. Six years at a Charlotte firm before he'd taken the Belmont retainer two years ago. He had a wife, a doctor named Simone, and a 4-year-old daughter named Maya who looked like both of them. There was a photo of Maya on his phone's lock screen.
He'd argued 62 cases in front of Julia Blackwood; he'd won every one. He was watching Kendrick lay out his cards on the respondent's table, and something in his stomach was sitting wrong.
The night before, he'd stayed at the office until 11:00. He'd opened the Jackson file, compared it to the Booker file from last year, and compared the surveys. He'd noticed something. He'd closed the laptop. He'd sat at the window of his office for a long time, looking out at the parking lot, thinking about his daughter. About what she'd ask him in 15 years if she ever read a transcript of his work. He didn't have an answer.
He'd gone home. He hadn't told Simone what he was thinking. He'd kissed Maya goodnight and stood in her doorway for 10 minutes watching her sleep, her hand under her cheek, her stuffed rabbit half on the floor.
Now he was here. And the kid across the room was opening a briefcase that had clearly belonged to somebody's grandfather, and Hanson realized he was about to do something he didn't want to do.
He stood up when Blackwood entered. The hearing began.
Kendrick's first move was a motion—a handwritten one asking permission for him to speak alongside his father at the table. Blackwood read it. Her jaw tightened. She glanced at Hanson, and the look she gave him made it clear: Object. Please.
Hanson stood up slowly. He looked down at his notes, then up at the bench. A beat.
"Your Honor, the plaintiff has no objection. The boy may speak. The law allows it."
Blackwood's expression cooled by 10 degrees. She granted the motion. "One misstep, boy, and you're done. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
Hanson's opening statement was clean, practiced. He didn't sneer.
"Your Honor, this is a property dispute, not a family story. A line drawn on a survey by a licensed professional with 28 years of experience. Mr. Jackson has occupied land that, under correct measurement, belongs to my client. That's regrettable. It's not actionable on our part." He paused and looked briefly at Kendrick. "I'd like to acknowledge this young man's commitment to his father is admirable, truly. But admiration doesn't change geography."
He sat. Inside, he was thinking: It does, though. If the geography was drawn wrong on purpose, admiration is the only thing that ever changes it. He didn't say that part out loud—yet.