At nine-thirty-seven, the judge entered, and everyone rose. Judge Harold Whitmore was not a sentimental man. He had presided over years of pettiness disguised as tragedy and tragedy disguised as paperwork. He was respected largely because he was not easily manipulated by tears, outrage, or prestige. If he leaned one way, it was toward order. Toward evidence. Toward the principle that most people were less unique than they believed. He took his seat, adjusted his glasses, and began calling the morning matters.
When he reached Reeves v. Carter, the room sharpened.
Counsel stood.
“Your Honor,” Robert Hanley said smoothly, “we are ready to proceed.”
Judge Whitmore glanced toward the petitioner’s side, found it empty, and frowned. “Counsel for Ms. Carter?”
No answer.
Julian exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back slightly, as though insult had finally been added to inconvenience. Vanessa leaned toward him with the smallest smile.
“Maybe she changed her mind,” she whispered.
He answered without looking at her. “That would be the smartest thing she’s done in years.”
The judge’s patience shortened by a degree. “The respondent has been notified?”