"Yes, baby."
A long pause. "What if I lose?"
Claire turned to him. She put one hand on his cheek the way Marsha used to. "Then you lose like a Dennis: standing up, with the right question on your tongue."
Kendrick had 10 days before the hearing. He used every hour.
The first three days were at the library, a small red-brick building at the corner of Main and Mulberry with a single librarian behind the front desk. Her name was Eleanor. She'd watched him come in every Saturday for the last four years. She'd never once asked why a Black kid was reading appellate decisions at 12 years old.
When he handed her the list that morning—court records, surveyor licensing files, financial disclosures for elected officials—she stopped at the last item. She looked at him over the top of her reading glasses. She didn't ask. She just nodded once.
"Print station three. I'll override the per-page limit." She paused. "Don't tell anyone."
She didn't say it like a warning. She said it like a promise.
The fourth day was the county records office. The clerk behind the counter was a woman named Renata. She read his request form, looked up at him over the top of her glasses, looked at the cracked briefcase, and looked back at the form. A coworker walked past behind her. Renata slid the form to the side, didn't react, and waited until the coworker was gone. Then, very quietly, she pulled every file he'd asked for.
She also pulled one he hadn't. She slid it across the counter inside a plain envelope.
"Page nine, mijo. Most recent year. Read it carefully."
He looked up at her. "Why are you helping me?"
She didn't smile. "Because I had a cousin who needed help once. Nobody helped her." A pause. "Don't tell anyone you got this from me."
"I won't."
"I know." She slid him a second envelope. "This one's the surveyor file, Pritchard. Read his license history first, then read the complaints filed against him." She held his eyes. "There are seven."