Fairfax County Circuit Court. Gray morning light falling through high windows onto polished rails. A local attorney named Gerald Davis prowling the well of the courtroom in a navy suit that strains at the buttons. Nine jurors from or around the county, several of whom I recognize in that infuriatingly vague way small places recognize each other. A stenographer whose fingers never seem to rest. Ashley waiting to perform grief. Robert waiting to be vindicated.
Gerald Davis adjusts his tie and approaches me with the expression of a man who thinks he has already won because he has found the edges of the paper world and proven I am not inside it.
“Miss Vance,” he says, “can you provide this court with a single verifiable piece of evidence that you have held gainful employment at any point in the last decade? A pay stub? A tax return? Anything that is not, for all practical purposes, a shadow?”
I look at him. Then at my father.
Robert is leaning back, arms crossed, smug satisfaction lifting one side of his mouth. He thinks he has cornered me in bureaucracy. He thinks all truth worth having leaves a public trail.