She held out the phone.
He scoffed.
“Whoever is on that line does not control this courtroom.”
I heard myself say, very evenly, “You should probably make the call.”
Something in my tone must have reached him.
Or maybe he finally saw that I was no longer the boy from yesterday in the hallway.
He took the phone.
Dialed.
“This is Judge Walter Harlan.”
Silence.
Then I watched the blood drain from his face.
He did not sit down.
He did not lean.
He just stood there and listened while something enormous, invisible, and long overdue moved toward him through a phone line.
“Yes,” he said.
A pause.
“Yes, sir.”
Longer pause.
“I understand.”
When he handed the phone back, his fingers trembled.
“Your property will be returned,” he said stiffly.
I did not move.
“In its original condition?” I asked.
His eyes flicked toward the cracked casing.
“No,” he said.
Then, after a swallowed breath, “In its current condition, along with all components and storage media.”
“Good,” Laura said.
I walked past him and lifted the project case myself.
Even damaged, it felt familiar in my hands.
Mine.
My father called again before we reached the door.
I answered on speaker.
“Is it resolved?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Put Judge Harlan on the line.”
The judge froze where he stood.
I turned and held out the phone.
For one second he looked like a man who might refuse.
Then he took it.
“This is Judge Harlan.”
My father’s voice came through loud enough that I heard every word.
“Judge Harlan, this is Robert Carter. I will be at your courthouse tomorrow morning at nine. Clear your schedule.”
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