“Look at the theater,” my father said to his attorney, his voice carrying clearly across the oak railing.

“She thinks this is a court-martial instead of a simple property dispute.”

He adjusted his gold watch band against his shirt cuff and turned back to face the front.

I didn’t answer him.

I walked to the defense table and pulled out the heavy wooden chair.

While I stood beside the desk waiting for the judge to come in, I rested my right hand flat on my right knee, where the surgical scar pulled tight.

Clara Potts came in through the side door carrying a wide, cream-colored legal envelope under her arm.