One question. That was all he needed.
Caldwell called a recess for lunch, but before the gavel came down, he leaned forward on the bench and looked directly at Andre.
Not with contempt this time, with something colder, something careful.
“Boy, I’ve given you more patience today than you deserve. When we come back this afternoon, I expect evidence. Real evidence. Documents, numbers, not speeches, not feelings. If you don’t have anything to show me, I will rule on what’s in front of me.”
He let that settle.
“And what’s in front of me is a license survey and a valid claim. Are we clear?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Good. Recess until 1:30.”
Ashton gathered her papers and smiled. Not the tight smile of someone performing confidence — the real smile of someone who believed she had already won.
She leaned over to whisper something to the Witmore representative and they both looked at Andre and shook their heads.
Caldwell stepped down from the bench and disappeared through the side door. The gallery emptied slowly. Some people stopped to touch Clarence’s shoulder. Most just filed out in silence, their faces heavy with the weight of inevitability.
In the hallway, Clarence sat on a wooden bench and put his head in his hands. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His body said everything — the curve of his back, the way his fingers pressed into his temples, the slow shake of his head.
22 years of work, his wife’s memory, his son’s future. All of it balanced on a hearing that felt like it was already decided.
Andre stood at the hallway window looking out at the town — the rooftops, the church steeple, the Witmore billboard in the distance.
For the first time since this began, his composure cracked just slightly. His hand trembled as he held the briefcase strap. The briefcase was almost as tall as his waist.
He looked small against the window. He looked like exactly what he was — a child carrying something too heavy for anyone his age.
Then he opened the briefcase. He pulled out the index card, the one from the front pocket, the one with the single question. He read it silently, lips moving. Once, twice.
His breathing slowed, his hands steadied, his face went calm.
He closed the briefcase and held it with both hands. He was ready.
That was when Caldwell appeared in the hallway, not in his robe, just his shirt and suspenders. He walked toward Andre slowly, deliberately, his shoes clicking on the marble. Then he crouched down so they were eye to eye.
Close enough that Andre could smell the coffee on his breath. Close enough that the gesture was unmistakable — a grown man lowering himself to a child’s height, not out of kindness, but out of power. The way you crouch to speak to a dog.
“You’ve got guts, kid. I’ll give you that.” His voice was low, almost friendly, almost warm.
“But guts don’t win cases in my courtroom. You know what wins? Knowing when you’ve lost.”