Mr. Warren was waiting for him near the security checkpoint. You look good, the lawyer said, though his eyes said otherwise. How do you feel? Like I'm about to throw up. That's normal.
Try not to do it in the courtroom. Mr. Warren put a hand on his shoulder. Remember what we talked about. Stay calm. Answer honestly.
Don't let Davidson get under your skin. He's going to try to make you angry. Don't let him. Davidson. Victoria's lawyer, Richard Davidson.
He's good at what he does, which is making decent people look bad. Mr. Warren started walking toward the elevators. Come on. Courtroom 4B. Judge Caldwell's chambers.
Marcus followed his stomach churning. What do you know about the judge? Harrison Caldwell has been on the family court bench for 18 years. Reputation for being fair but tough. He doesn't suffer fools and he doesn't like people who waste his time.
Mr. Warren pressed the elevator button. He's also a father himself. Two daughters, I think. Hopefully, that works in our favor. The elevator doors opened with a soft ding.
They stepped inside and rode up in silence. Courtroom 4B was at the end of a long hallway. The doors were heavy oak polished to a shine that reflected Marcus' face back at him as he approached. He looked scared. He felt scared.
"Ready?" Mr. Warren asked. "No." "Good, honest answer." The lawyer pushed open the door.
"Let's go." The courtroom was smaller than Marcus had expected. A few rows of wooden benches, a raised platform for the judge, two tables facing each other. across the center aisle. It smelled like old wood and decades of human drama. Victoria was already there.
She sat at the table on the right, dressed in a navy blue dress that probably cost more than Marcus made in a month. Her hair was perfect, her makeup flawless, her posture straight and confident. She looked like exactly what she was trying to convince the court she'd become a responsible, put-together woman who deserved to have her daughter back. She didn't look at Marcus as he walked in. Didn't acknowledge him at all.
Just kept her eyes forward, hands folded on the table in front of her. Beside her sat a man in a suit that screamed expensive. Richard Davidson. He was in his 50s, silver-haired with the kind of easy confidence that came from winning more cases than he lost. He glanced up as Marcus entered and offered a small cold smile that said, "I've already won this."
Marcus took his seat at the left table, his heart pounding. "Don't let them intimidate you," Mr. Warren whispered, opening his briefcase. "They want you rattled. Don't give them the satisfaction." "Easy for you to say."