Kendrick wore an ironed white shirt that had once been Bobby's, sleeves still a touch too long, cuffed at the wrists. His shoes were cracked at the toes but polished to a shine; he'd polished them himself the night before, sitting cross-legged on the basement floor with an old rag and a tin of black polish.
Claire arrived to drive them. She wore a navy suit that hadn't been out of the closet in 20 years. It still fit. Her hair was pinned back. She had her mother's pearl earrings on, the ones she'd worn to her doctoral hooding ceremony.
Before they got in the car, she put both hands on Kendrick's shoulders. "Don't perform, baby. Don't try to be a lawyer. Just be true. The truth is the only thing they can't argue with, only sneer at." She paused. "Let them sneer."
Kendrick nodded. She kissed his forehead and held him for one second longer than necessary.
He picked up the briefcase. It was the same weight as it had been the night Claire had handed it to him. He'd gotten used to it.
The Ardmore County Courthouse had been built in 1908. White columns. A brass plaque by the door listed every judge who'd ever served; Julia Blackwood's name was the last one.
Bobby and Kendrick walked up the marble steps together—step by step, no rush, the way you walk when you can't be late and you also can't be early.
The lobby was full. Word had spread across the South Side overnight: The Jackson boy is going to argue. The 15-year-old. Some had come to watch. Some had come to pray. Some had just come to be there the way a community shows up for one of its own when it knows nothing else to do.
Marlene was there in a navy church dress, gripping a small handkerchief. Devon Marsh was there too, in the back, in a suit, briefcase in hand like a man who had decided something. He nodded once at Kendrick when their eyes met.
And Judge Julia Blackwood was crossing the lobby, robe unzipped, talking to her bailiff, when she stopped and saw Kendrick. She looked him up and down—a slow look, a deliberate one.
That's when she said it:
"This isn't a daycare, boy. Take your raggedy little self and your trash bin briefcase out of my courthouse before I have the bailiff drag you out."
The lobby went still. Forty people heard it. Most of the white faces laughed. The Black faces did not.
Kendrick stood his ground. "Your Honor, I'll leave when you answer one question."
Blackwood's eyes narrowed. She glanced at the bailiff, considered, and then she gave a smile that wasn't a smile. "You want to play lawyer, son? Fine. Courtroom B, 20 minutes. I'll give you 10 of them before I have you removed."
She turned and walked away.
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.