“I would need to consult my team.”
“Do that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Call them.”
Bennett stepped in fast.
“Your Honor, that is not appropriate in the middle of—”
“I am not asking for argument. Your client has represented a lack of knowledge. He may clarify that representation now or allow the court to consider it as stated.”
Marcus’s face tightened again.
This was not how rooms usually treated him.
Rooms usually bent.
This one had a bench.
A flag.
A seal.
And the one man alive who knew how I looked at five years old, standing in his chambers with a peanut butter sandwich, asking why bad people lied when everyone could hear them.
My father had told me, “Because they are not afraid of being heard. They are afraid of being believed.”
Now he believed me.
But he did not need to say it.
Marcus took out his phone.
