Pritchard blinked. "GPS coordinates get updated sometimes."
"Updated by who?"
"The county."
Kendrick handed him a printed letter, stamped, dated, and signed by the county surveyor's office. "This is from the county. It says the coordinates for this parcel haven't been updated since 2002. Not once in 22 years." He paused. "Would you like to revise your previous answer?"
Pritchard's hand began to shake. He looked at his water glass, but didn't drink from it. He looked at Hanson; Hanson was looking at the table. He looked at Blackwood; Blackwood's face was very still.
Kendrick reached into the briefcase again and pulled out three more sheets.
"These are surveys you did on three other properties Belmont has bought in the last four years: the Booker property, the Reed property, the Hightower-Bell property." He set them down one by one on the rail. "Same problem on every single one. Different distances—16 feet, 11 feet, 8 feet, 4 feet—different directions. But every time, the line moves in Belmont's favor." He looked Pritchard in the eye. "Mr. Pritchard, did somebody at Belmont tell you to start your measurements from the wrong place?" A pause. "Yes or no."
The courtroom did not breathe.
Pritchard's mouth opened. His eyes flicked involuntarily, helplessly, toward the bench—toward Judge Blackwood. Forty people saw it.
Hanson closed his eyes for one full second. When he opened them, his face had changed. He had in that second understood something he had been refusing to understand for two years: that Belmont had buried him in this case, and that he was a pawn who had simply not realized he was a pawn.
Pritchard finally answered, his voice small: "I... I was given coordinates to work from."
"By who?"
"By Belmont's project director. He told me the system had been updated. I had no reason to—"
Hanson stood up. "Your Honor, may we approach the bench?"
Blackwood's voice came down sharp. "No, Mr. Hanson, you may not. Sit down."