Kendrick stood. He had to push his chair back to make room; the top of his head barely cleared the table. He didn't try to match Hanson's polish—he couldn't—but his voice was steady.
"Mr. Hanson is right about one thing: this case is about a line." He paused. "He's wrong about the question. The question isn't where the line is now. The question is whether the line we're shown today is the same line that was drawn 22 years ago." He looked for just a second at Blackwood. "And if it isn't, who moved it?"
The courtroom went very quiet. Hanson looked down at the table. Bobby Jackson, beside his son, sat up a little straighter.
Blackwood let Hanson cross-examine Bobby first. Hanson kept it gentle. He asked about the deed, about the original purchase, about what Bobby had understood when he and Marsha had signed the papers in 2002. Then he asked a little quieter, "Mr. Jackson, you didn't finish high school, is that correct?"
Bobby's face tightened. He didn't answer right away. When he did, he stood up slowly, fully, and looked Hanson in the eye.
"No, sir. I did not. I joined the Army at 17 because my mama needed the check. I came home. I learned how to fix engines because that's what feeds my family." He paused. "I never read a law book in my life, but I raised the boy who did."
He took a breath, glanced at Kendrick, and looked back at Hanson.
"So, you tell me, Mr. Hanson: which one of us understands this case better? Because I've been watching lawyers a long time. You don't stop talking for nothing, and my boy made you stop talking back there for a second."
The courtroom was silent. Hanson opened his mouth, then closed it. "No further questions, Your Honor."
Bobby sat down. Kendrick reached over and squeezed his father's hand under the table. It was the first time in 18 months he'd seen his dad stand up that tall.
Blackwood called for a recess.
In the hallway, Kendrick stood alone by the window. The glass was old, slightly warped; the view of the parking lot wavered like heat coming off a road. He heard footsteps. It was Hanson. The lawyer stopped a few feet away, looking tired in a way he hadn't looked in the courtroom.
"You're good. You know that? I went to Yale. I've never seen a 15-year-old build an argument that clean."
Kendrick didn't turn. "Then why are you on the wrong side, Mr. Hanson?"
Hanson didn't answer at first. He looked at the floor. "Somebody's going to win this case, son. I'm just trying to make sure it's a clean win."
Kendrick turned to him then. His voice was very quiet. "Mr. Hanson, my mother died waiting for a court to do the right thing." A beat. "Don't talk to me about clean wins."
Hanson swallowed. He didn't say anything else; he walked away.
Behind him, Kendrick opened the briefcase, pulled out the index card, read it once, closed his eyes for a long moment, opened them, and put the card back.
Lunch ended.
When the courtroom reconvened, the gallery was fuller than before. The hallway was packed with bodies who couldn't get a seat. Somebody had propped open the door so the people standing in the corridor could hear.
Kendrick called Howard Pritchard to the stand. Hanson started to object, hesitated, and sat back down without finishing the sentence. Blackwood overruled the objection that hadn't been completed. She had no choice.
Howard Pritchard was a heavy-set man in his 50s, receding hairline, sweat already beginning at his temples before any question was asked. He sat down in the witness chair and adjusted the microphone with hands that were already a little shaky. He had performed 42 surveys for Belmont over the last six years. He'd never been cross-examined about a single one.
Kendrick started gentle. "Mr. Pritchard, how long have you been a licensed surveyor?"
"Twenty-eight years."
"And you did the survey in this case?"
"I did."
"Can you explain how you decided where to start measuring from?"
Pritchard relaxed. This was his sandbox. He explained the process: reference monuments, GPS coordinates, county benchmarks, standard stuff. He used technical language, spoke a little too long, and showed off. Kendrick let him. The longer he talked, the more committed he became to his version of the story.
When Pritchard finally stopped, Kendrick reached into the briefcase, pulled out two transparent sheets, and walked to the witness stand. He had to reach up to place them on the rail.
"Mr. Pritchard, these are two maps: the original boundary map for this parcel drawn in 2002, and your map drawn last year. They have different starting points, about 16 feet apart." He looked up at the witness. "Can you explain why?"