The folder opened with a soft crack of leather.
I removed the first document and placed it on the podium beneath the courtroom lamp.
A raised seal pressed through the corner of the paper.
A blue ribbon ran beneath the clerk’s certification.
The judge did not touch it immediately.
He looked at the date on my document, then at the date beneath the notary stamp on the waiver my mother and brother had filed.
They were the same.
Simon leaned toward Diane.
“What is that?”
She did not answer.
The judge put his glasses back on and read the heading.
His face became still.
“This is a certified transcript from this court,” he said.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He turned several pages.
“From the probate-fraud hearing held last March.”
“Yes.”
That was why he remembered me.
Ten months earlier, I had sat in the witness chair in that same courtroom and testified for nearly three hours.
I worked as a forensic accountant, though my family preferred telling people that I “helped with spreadsheets.” I followed money through altered ledgers, hidden transfers, duplicate invoices, and accounts designed to look ordinary.
The previous case had involved an administrator accused of draining an elderly man’s estate.
I had reconstructed five years of transactions and shown the court how small withdrawals had concealed a much larger theft.
The judge had questioned me directly about my methods.
He had watched me trace every missing dollar.
Simon had never known about that hearing.
Diane had known only that I had been “busy with work.” Neither had ever asked what my work involved.
The judge glanced at me.
“You were the financial expert who testified that morning.”
“I was.”
His attention returned to the certified transcript.
The waiver said I had appeared at Lakeshore Bank, sixty-two miles away, at 10:17 a.m.
It claimed I had presented identification, signed in front of a notary, and voluntarily surrendered every claim to Dad’s estate.
The transcript in front of the judge showed that at 10:17 a.m., I was answering a question under oath in his courtroom.
My answer appeared halfway down page eighty-four.
The court reporter had recorded every word.
The clerk’s log showed that I entered the courthouse at 8:52.
The witness oath had been administered at 9:41.
My testimony began at 9:48 and continued until 11:36.
A security record attached to the transcript showed that I did not leave the building until after noon.
The judge leaned back.
“My recognition of Ms.
Jameson is not evidence,” he said.
“The certified record is.”
Diane gripped the edge of the table.
“There must be some mistake with the time.”
“The time on which document?” the judge asked.
She hesitated.
“The bank’s document.”
Simon stood.
“It could be a clerical error.
Notaries make mistakes.”
The judge looked toward him.
“You represented in your filing that you personally witnessed your sister sign this waiver.”
Simon’s mouth opened, then closed.
“I was there,” he said finally.
“At 10:17?”
