“As often as I could,” my father lied smoothly. “But Elena blocked us! She changed the locks!”
I wrote a note on my legal pad. Perjury Count 1: Locks were changed by the nursing home, not me.
“Your witness,” Sterling said.
“No questions, Your Honor,” I repeated.
My father sneered at me as he stepped down. He thought I was freezing up. He thought I was cowed by his presence, by his suit, by his loud voice. He didn’t know I was just letting them enter their lies into the official court record. In a deposition, lies are problematic. In a trial, lies are a crime.
Sterling called a “medical expert”—a doctor who had never met Nana Rose but had reviewed her files “for a fee.” He claimed that based on her age, she must have been susceptible to influence.
“The defendant likely used emotional manipulation techniques,” the doctor speculated.
“No questions,” I said again.
By the time Sterling rested his case, the sun was high in the sky. The narrative they had built was comprehensive: I was a broke, manipulative, unemployed loser who had stolen a fortune from a confused old woman and her loving family.
“The Plaintiff rests,” Sterling announced, slamming a binder shut. “The evidence is clear, Your Honor. The defendant is unfit. The will is a product of fraud.”
Judge Halloway sighed and rubbed her temples. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance.
“Ms. Vance,” she said. “It is your turn. Do you have… anything? Any witnesses? Any documents? Or should I issue my ruling now based on the uncontested testimony we have heard?”
My father leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He winked at my mother. It was over. They had won.
I stood up slowly. I picked up the single, thin manila folder from the table.
“I have no witnesses, Your Honor,” I said. “I have just one document.”
“One document?” Sterling laughed out loud. “Is it a letter of apology?”
“No,” I said. “It is my personnel file.”
I walked to the bailiff and handed him the folder. He walked it up to the bench.
The room was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation. My parents were whispering about where they were going to go for dinner to celebrate.
Judge Halloway flipped open the folder. She adjusted her glasses. She frowned. Then she squinted.
She turned the first page. Then the second.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. She looked back at the file, as if checking to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
“Ms. Vance…” the Judge started, her voice different now. Curious. “This document… this is a certified service record from the Department of Defense?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said.
