“Focus,” Garrison warned, though a small, cruel smile played on his lips. “Judge Henderson is a stickler for decorum. Let’s get this done quickly. I have a lunch reservation at Le Bernardin at one.”
“Don’t worry, Garrison,” Keith said, leaning back with the confidence of a man who’d never lost anything in his life. “By one o’clock, I’ll be a free man, and she’ll be looking for a studio apartment in Queens. Or maybe the Bronx, if she’s lucky.”The bailiff, a heavyset man named Officer Kowalski who had seen enough divorces to lose faith in humanity twice over, bellowed out, “All rise. The Honorable Judge Lawrence P. Henderson presiding.”
The room shuffled to its feet with the enthusiasm of mourners at a funeral. Judge Henderson swept in, his black robes billowing like storm clouds. He was a man of sharp angles and short patience, known for clearing his docket with ruthless efficiency. His face was carved from granite, his eyes perpetually narrowed as if the entire world had personally disappointed him. He took his seat, adjusted his spectacles, and peered down at us with the warmth of a glacier.
“Be seated,” Henderson commanded, his voice carrying the weight of thirty years on the bench.The room sat.
He opened the file in front of him with the careful precision of a man handling evidence in a murder trial. “Case number 24-NY-0091, Simmons versus Simmons. We are here for the preliminary hearing regarding the division of assets and the petition for spousal support.”
