Not tragic. Not broken. Just diminished. He had lost some weight in the sloppy unpleasant way people do when they are living on adrenaline, takeout, and self-pity. His suit didn’t fit right anymore. Rebecca trailed behind him looking pale and pinched, her cardigan hanging loosely from her shoulders. Margaret and Lily came last, both dressed as if fury itself had a formal dress code.
Ethan tried to meet my eyes.
I looked straight through him.
The judge entered—a tired man with silver hair and the long-suffering expression of someone who had seen every possible version of human stupidity and no longer felt inclined to decorate his reactions.
We stood. Sat. Began.
Ethan’s lawyer went first, and from his posture alone I could tell he hated this case. He had the look of a man who had been handed a leaking bag and told to present it as a briefcase.
“Your Honor,” he began, “my client contests the validity of the Las Vegas marriage. He was under emotional duress and manipulated into signing papers while intoxicated.”
The judge raised one eyebrow. “Duress? Intoxication? That’s a stretch.”
Miranda stood smoothly.