“Order.”
Henrietta suddenly turned toward the door.
Her Birkin slid off her arm and hit the floor, spilling lipstick, keys, and a gold pen across the polished boards.
The bailiff stepped into her path.
“Ma’am. Please remain where you are.”
She stared at him.
Then at the room.
Hundreds of eyes.
There was nowhere to go.
Griffin Ziegler slowly pushed back his chair.
“Henrietta,” he said hoarsely. “Stop.”
Mr. Montrose grabbed his sleeve. “Griffin, don’t—”
“I’m done.”
He turned to face the bench.
“Your Honor, the amendment is false. I wrote it myself, in my own study, in the fall of 2009. Cooper’s signature I practiced from the closing papers on his patent. My wife stamped it at the kitchen table.”
He looked at my mother for the first time.
“Millie, I was going to put it back. I swear to you, every year I was going to put it back.”
