My mother stood up from the plaintiff’s table, her gentle voice dropping into a soft, nervous murmur.

“Harold, please.

There must be some mistake in how the paper was filed back then.”

“Sit down, Margaret,” Judge Simmons said without turning his head toward her.

He turned his full gaze back to my father, who sat frozen in the witness chair.

“You submitted forged tax affidavits under oath, Robert,” Judge Simmons said sharply.

“You filed a fraudulent duplicate title application for thirty dollars, and you tried to sell land you never owned to a commercial shopping center company.”

My father lowered his eyes to the floor and said nothing.