"They picked the wrong family."
That night, Kendrick didn't sleep. He spread the lawsuit on the basement floor, every page in order. He highlighted every word he didn't know. He looked each one up. He cross-referenced citations. He filled six pages of his notebook with definitions before he was done.
By midnight, he understood the case better than Bobby ever would. By 2:00 in the morning, he understood something else.
This wasn't a normal property dispute. The paper said Belmont had just discovered a 22-year-old mistake. That was the part that didn't sit right. You can't sue somebody about a thing that happened 22 years ago; there's a clock that runs out unless you can convince a judge you only just found out. Which means a judge has to let you. Which means somebody somewhere was already counting on a particular judge.
Kendrick wrote three words in the notebook, underlined them twice: Find the judge.
Over the next eight days, Bobby tried three lawyers.
The first was Garrett Whaley. Glass desk, leather chairs, a photograph of himself shaking hands with a state senator on the wall. Whaley flipped through the lawsuit for 90 seconds, maybe less. He slid it back across the desk like it was contagious.
"Mr. Jackson, let me save us both some time. You're going up against Belmont in Judge Blackwood's courtroom. That's not a trial. That's a foregone conclusion with extra steps."
Bobby asked what it would cost to try anyway.
Whaley glanced at Kendrick, still in the chair beside his father, still writing in that blue notebook, taking notes on the meeting itself, and gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "More than your truck out there is worth, sir. A lot more."
Kendrick wrote Whaley: gatekeeper in the notebook, drew a circle around it, and drew an arrow pointing out of the office.
The second lawyer wanted $15,000 just to look at the file. Bobby laughed when he heard the number. Not a happy laugh, but the kind of laugh you make when there's nothing else in the room that fits the situation.
"Sir, I don't have fifteen hundred."
The lawyer shrugged. He had another appointment. Bobby stood up, thanked him for his time, and closed the door very gently on the way out.
The third was Devon Marsh. Devon's office was in the next county over, in a strip mall between a tax preparer and a dollar store. Small, one room. The brass nameplate by the door read: Devon Marsh, Attorney at Law.
He was the only Black attorney in the entire region. He was also the only one who'd ever filed an ethics complaint against Judge Blackwood. He'd been audited by the IRS three times the year after. His landlord had doubled his rent. His biggest client, a Black-owned trucking company he'd represented for eight years, had switched firms one Tuesday with no explanation. By the end of that year, Devon's practice had shrunk to almost nothing. He was still standing, but just barely.
He listened to Bobby's whole story without interrupting. He didn't take a single note, just listened, hands folded on his desk, eyes never leaving Bobby's face. When Bobby finished, Devon turned and looked at Kendrick for the first time.
"How old are you, son?"
"Fifteen, sir."
"You read the complaint?"
"All of it. Twice."
"Find anything?"
Kendrick met his eyes. "They're trying to sue past the deadline. They're going to need the judge to bend on it."
Devon nodded slowly, like a man hearing exactly what he expected to hear. He turned back to Bobby.
"Mr. Jackson, I would lose this case, and I'd lose my practice trying. I have a daughter who's about to start at NC State. I have to be honest with you, and I have to be honest with her." He paused. "I'm sorry. I truly am."
He stood and walked Bobby toward the door. But before they left, he put a hand on Kendrick's shoulder, crouching a little to meet his eye.
"Son, if you find a way anyway, call me. I'll show up for free. I'll sit second chair behind a 15-year-old if I have to." He paused. "You hearing me?"
Kendrick nodded. He didn't say anything until they were back in the truck. Then quietly, looking out the window: "Dad, take me to Grandma's."
Sunday dinner at Claire Dennis's house was crowded that week. Collard greens cooked low and slow with a smoked turkey neck. Cornbread baked in a cast-iron skillet so seasoned it was almost black. Sweet tea in Mason jars sweating onto the tablecloth. The house smelled like every Sunday Kendrick had ever known.
But the mood was heavier than usual. Word had spread. Three other Southside families had received Belmont envelopes in the last six months. Two had already settled. One, the Reed family, had lost their case in Blackwood's courtroom in 23 minutes. Twenty-three minutes for a property four generations of Reeds had owned.
Among the guests was Marlene Booker, 63 years old, retired nurse, widowed eight months. She'd lost her house to Belmont in February. She didn't eat much; she mostly stared at her plate. When the conversation turned to the Jacksons' lawsuit, Marlene set her fork down. She took a small breath, the kind people take when they've been holding something in for a while.