Before our first hearing, Eleanor made one last attempt to break me, and she made it the way her family made everything — as a performance, in front of an audience whose opinion she prized.

She hosted a dinner at a private club in Manhattan and invited the extended family, the uncles, and a number of business associates.

When I walked into that private dining room with David beside me, I watched the assumption ripple around the table: that I had come, at last, chastened, to offer a graceful public apology and put the unpleasantness behind us.

That was the script.

Everyone had read it but me.

David set up a tablet and, without a word, projected three certified documents onto the club’s display screen.