Tate continued, but the rhythm had been broken. He stumbled twice in the following ten minutes, misreferencing an exhibit number, then catching himself, then referring to an argument he had already made as if it were new. Harold sat beside him with his hands flat on the table, jaw set, and I could see from thirty feet away that he was furious.
Not at the proceedings.
At the recognition that they were not going the way he had expected them to go.
I did not look away.
When Clare gave her closing argument, she was measured and clean and left nothing out. She cited the law, the evidence, the specific harm, and the remedy she was seeking: vacatur of the original settlement and a new division of marital assets that reflected what had actually existed.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap the same way I had sat at the original hearing, but I was not the same woman.
After the session adjourned, Judge Marsh announced she would issue her written ruling within thirty days.
Clare walked me out. Neither of us spoke until we were on the sidewalk.
“He handed it to us,” she said.
“He always thought he was the only one paying attention,” I said.
She looked at me for a moment.
“He was wrong about that.”