In our first meeting n, he read all and in silence. Letter from Brent’s Lawyer. Harold’s report. The old dishes. The photographs. The certified notice. Then she looked at me.
“Do you want money or restoration?”
“Restoration.”
She nodded once, as if that was the answer she expected. “Good. Money gets complicated. The boundaries are cleaner.”
Caleb came with me to that meeting. On the trip home, he said, “She scares me.”
“Good. We’re paying him to uescare other people.”
The preliminary hearing was scheduled in county court. The courtroom was small, with dark wood panels, with a weak smell of floor polishing, old paper and coffee that had been burned do for too many hours. The judge was the honorable Elaine Porter, a woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and the tired patience of someone who had heard all possible versions of “I thought it was mine.”
