"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.
"They smile at you the whole time, baby. The whole time. Like they're doing you a favor." She looked up. "The lawyer—handsome boy, suit cost more than my mortgage—told me 62,000 was a generous offer, above market. I just sold my mama's house. The house I was born in." Her voice didn't break, but her hands were folded so tight in her lap her knuckles had gone pale. "They're putting townhomes on it now. Three of them. $350,000 each." A pause. "You do the math."
The table went quiet. Even the kids stopped fidgeting. Bobby reached across and squeezed her hand. He didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say.
Kendrick wrote her name in the notebook. He didn't know yet what he was going to do with it, but he wrote it.