Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“He wanted the cabin, Emma,” I said simply.
Karen stepped forward, tapping her silver fountain pen against her yellow notepad, her professional mask firmly back in place.
“We have twenty minutes before the judge calls the docket,” Karen said, her brisk, rapid-fire words cutting through our small circle. “Arthur Sterling is already upstairs with David, and they are trying to negotiate an informal continuance.”
“No continuances,” Ben said, his grip on my hand tightening.
I looked at my son, seeing so much of my father’s stubborn resolve in the line of his jaw.
“We go in today, Karen,” I said, my own voice sounding steadier than I felt.
We took the elevator to the third floor, the mechanical hum of the car filling the small cabin as we rose past the high windows.
The corridor outside Judge Vance’s chambers was lined with long oak benches that had been polished so often they smelled of lemon wax.
David was sitting on the far end of the nearest bench, his hands resting on his knees, his gold watch catching the pale light from the clerestory window above.
