The room held its breath. Diane leaned forward slightly. Curtis clicked his pen. Aunt Colette’s hands were folded in her lap. They were all waiting for the breakdown, for the tears or the outburst or the confused fumbling that would confirm the story they had been told.
I stood up slowly. I buttoned my blazer. I looked directly at Diane, not at the judge, not at the gallery, at her. I held her gaze for three full seconds without blinking or looking away, and I watched the first flicker of something that was not quite fear but was the precursor to it move across her face.
Then I turned to the judge.
“I’m listening, Your Honor. I just want to make sure my stepmother is finished. I wouldn’t want to interrupt her while she’s still under oath.”
Diane’s lip moved, a fraction of a second, quickly controlled. She felt the ground shift beneath her without yet understanding why.
Curtis recovered and pressed forward. He handed a folder to the bailiff containing the transfer records he had presumably been given by Diane, and spoke about the pattern of neglect and mismanagement these documents demonstrated. Three hundred and ten thousand dollars, transfers to unknown entities, no oversight. What kind of person loses that much money without noticing?
The gallery murmured. Aunt Colette whispered to her daughter. They were closing ranks around the narrative, settling into the version of events they had been prepared to accept.
I let the silence sit for exactly five seconds. Long enough for the room to settle into its assumptions. Long enough for Diane to feel, just for a moment, that she had won.
Then I said, “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
He nodded.
