Hanson sat. But the look on his face was no longer the look of a man defending a client; it was the look of a man watching a crime in progress.
Kendrick let Pritchard step down. The surveyor walked back to his seat unsteadily, not making eye contact with anyone. He sat down in the second row and did not look up again for the rest of the proceedings.
Kendrick did not return to the respondent's table. He stood in the open space between the tables, set the briefcase down at his feet, opened it, and reached inside. He pulled out the index card. He read it once, quietly, to himself. He'd practiced this question in his grandmother's kitchen for six nights. He'd whispered it to himself before falling asleep. He'd written it on the inside of his palm in case his hands shook.
His hands were not shaking.
He turned slowly until he was facing the bench. He looked up at Judge Julia Blackwood.
"Your Honor, before you rule on this case, the record needs one more question. It isn't for any witness. It's for this court."
Blackwood's face hardened. "You're out of order, boy."
"With respect, Your Honor, I have a public document in my hand—a document filed by you every year with the state. Anybody can request it. I did." He held up page nine. "This document says that for the last four years, you have owned a stake in Belmont Holdings. $217,000."
He lowered the page.
"My question, Your Honor, is this:" A beat. "Every property Belmont takes, you make money. Every ruling in their favor, you make money. There's a rule in the state code. It says a judge can't decide a case if she has money in it." Another beat. "How can you decide this case fairly when you profit from the verdict?"
Silence.
The kind of silence that has weight, that presses on the chest, that makes a courtroom of 40 people feel suddenly like a single held breath. Judge Julia Blackwood's gavel hand, which had been raised, began to lower very slowly, like a light bulb dimming out. She did not speak.
In the back of the courtroom, Devon Marsh stood up. He was in his suit—the same one he'd worn the day six years ago that he'd filed the ethics complaint that had cost him his practice. His voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man who had been waiting a long time to say what he was about to say.
"Your Honor, Devon Marsh, North Carolina Bar, license active. The young man is correct on the law. The state code is mandatory, not optional." He paused. "Forty witnesses heard him. The court reporter has it on record." Another pause. "Your Honor, please do the right thing now."
He sat down. You could hear his suit jacket move against the wooden bench. You could hear it because nothing else in the room was making a sound.