Chapter 4 - Ten Seconds
Courtroom 4B smelled like old paper and burnt coffee.
Adrian sat at the opposite table in a navy suit that probably cost more than my first car. Vanessa sat behind him, one row back, dressed in white.
White.
At a divorce hearing.
Evelyn Voss sat beside her in black, chin lifted, pearl necklace straight.
Ethan was supposed to remain in a private waiting room with Luis.
That was the plan.
Plans are nice.
Then Adrian’s attorney stood and said, “Your Honor, the child’s cognitive limitations are directly relevant to the mother’s credibility because she has repeatedly represented his observations as reliable evidence.”
I felt Nora’s hand touch my wrist.
Wait.
The judge, Hon. Miriam Kline, looked over her glasses.
“Counsel, are you asking this court to make a finding regarding a seven-year-old child based on what?”
Adrian’s lawyer held up a school evaluation.
“This report.”
Nora rose. “That report says no such thing.”
“Then perhaps the child can clarify.”
My stomach dropped.
The judge’s face hardened. “I will not turn a custody proceeding into a performance test.”
Behind us, the side door opened.
Luis appeared.
Ethan was with him.
Later, I learned Ethan had heard his name through the wall and refused to stay put.
He walked in carrying his puzzle book.
Adrian looked irritated before he looked surprised.
That told me everything.
Ethan stopped near the rail.
Judge Kline leaned forward. “Young man, you don’t need to be in here.”
“I know.”
“Would you like to go back outside?”
He looked at Adrian.
Then he looked at the stack of exhibits on the clerk’s desk.
“No.”
Nora stood. “Your Honor—”
Ethan pointed at one page.
“Dad’s numbers are wrong.”
Adrian’s attorney laughed under his breath.
The judge heard it.
“What numbers?” she asked.
Ethan walked closer.
It took ten seconds.
Maybe less.
He pointed to a financial affidavit where Adrian swore that Voss Meridian’s restricted cash balance was $18,440,000.
“The commas are in the wrong place,” Ethan said.
The courtroom went quiet.
Adrian’s attorney blinked. “What?”
Ethan looked at the page. “Every other company paper Mom showed me uses spaces after the dollar sign and commas. This one has a tiny dot here.”
He tapped the figure.
Under magnification on the courtroom monitor, the “18,440,000” showed a faint decimal point after 18.
18.440,000.
European formatting from the original banking export.
Someone had altered the screenshot and failed to flatten the source layer.
Nora was already moving.
“Your Honor, we request immediate forensic imaging of the devices used to prepare this affidavit.”
Adrian stood. “This is ridiculous.”
Judge Kline’s voice cut through him.
“Sit down.”
He did.
Ethan looked at his father.
Not triumphantly.
Just sadly.
“You said I was stupid.”
Adrian went pale.
Ethan swallowed.
“You should’ve checked your commas.”
No one laughed.
Judge Kline issued the preservation order eleven minutes later.
And then the clerk handed Nora a sealed emergency filing that had arrived from the state attorney general’s office.
Nora opened it.
Her face drained of color.
“What?” I whispered.
She turned the first page toward me.
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VOSS MERIDIAN — NOTICE OF PARALLEL FRAUD INVESTIGATION.
