My father’s voice came through first, deep and booming over the high-definition speakers as he bragged about his commercial land purchases in Pinecrest Manor.

Then came the rustle of paper, followed by the sharp, heavy thud of Chloe’s boot stomping down on the floorboards of the bay window.

“Stop drawing those stupid bridges under my feet,” Chloe’s recorded voice whined over the sound system, high-pitched and clear.

“He was just coloring quietly, Chloe,” my own recorded voice answered flatly through the speakers.

“Apologize to him right now.”

A loud metallic clang echoed through the courtroom speakers as Brenda slammed her fork against her dinner plate.