“One moment,” she said, and reached for a sealed folder on her bench—thick, official, edges still sharp. It hadn’t been there at the start of the hearing. Or if it had, it had blended into the pile of files like another piece of expected routine.
The courtroom shifted, as subtle as a breeze changing direction. The judge adjusted her glasses. The folder’s seal caught the light for a second, white and clean, like a fresh bandage.
My husband’s pen tapped once against the table, impatient. Then again. A small sound, but it grated on my nerves because I recognized it. That tap meant he believed time belonged to him.
“Your Honor,” his lawyer began, polite smile fixed, “we were under the impression all financial declarations had been finalized.”
The judge did not answer immediately. She opened the folder with the careful precision of someone handling a document that mattered. Paper whispered against paper. The kind of sound that seems louder in a room full of breath held too tightly.
