The second time, an entire courtroom did.
Only this time, Victor Hale had no idea that the insult he thought would humiliate me was about to destroy the story he had spent twenty years building.
He laughed when he said it.
That was the part I remember most.
Not the polished walnut walls of Courtroom 4B.
Not the rain streaking the tall windows of the Cook County courthouse.
Not the scratch of Grace Chen’s fountain pen beside me.
Not even Melissa Ward sitting behind Victor in a cream-colored dress, one perfectly crossed leg bouncing beneath the bench while she watched the end of my marriage like she had been given front-row tickets to a show.
I remember Victor laughing.
“Your Honor,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “Claire is making this much more complicated than it needs to be.”
Judge Evelyn Monroe peered over her glasses.
“How so, Mr. Hale?”
