“I live out in Phoenix.”

“I asked when you last visited her.”

My mother looked at the judge’s robe instead of at me.

“Two years ago.

Maybe three.”

“No more questions,” Clare said.

Martha walked back down the aisle past the second row, where Arthur Hayward sat with one hand clasped around his other wrist, and he cleared his throat twice and didn’t get up.

Judge Whitfield removed his reading glasses.