I walked down the center of the marble floor, my damp leather work boots squeaking against the wet stone.
Miller walked two paces behind me, flanked by an armed Port Authority lieutenant who carried the grey Pelican case by its reinforced steel handle.
Pendergast stopped speaking. His gaze flicked first to my soaked twill jacket, then down to my scuffed boots, and finally settled on the Port Authority insignia pinned to Miller’s chest. The calm, procedural superiority on the lawyer’s face didn't shatter all at once; it eroded in tiny, panicked increments around his eyes.
"Marcus?" Pendergast stepped forward, instinctively putting his hand over his briefcase latch. "This docket is closed to outside testimony. You missed the ninety-day filing window for estate claims. If you're here to cause a disturbance, I will have the bailiff remove you before Judge Holbrook takes the bench."
"I didn't file an estate claim, Arthur," I said, stopping three feet from his polished oxfords. My voice wasn't loud, but in the echoing marble corridor, every clerk and court reporter turned to look. "Officer Miller is here to execute a federal evidentiary summons issued forty minutes ago by Magistrate Thorne at the airfield."
The oak double doors swung open before Pendergast could formulate an objection.
"Docket 26-B," the bailiff called out into the hall. "Matter of Vance Logistics Holdings versus the Estate of Thomas Vance. All parties enter."
Judge Eleanor Holbrook was sixty-two years old, with silver hair cropped close to her jawline and a reputation in the third district for detesting theatrical drama. She had spent thirty years watching maritime receiverships get carved up by corporate holding firms while dockworkers lost their pensions to bankruptcy shell games. When she adjusted her wire-rim glasses and looked down from the bench, her eyes went straight to the muddy water pooling around my boots, then to the heavy industrial container Miller set down squarely on the petitioner’s mahogany table.
"Counsel," Judge Holbrook said, her pen poised over the docket ledger. "I have an emergency motion for summary default filed by the petitioner. I do not see Ms. Vance."
Pendergast stood up quickly, tugging down his suit jacket. "Your Honor, Ms. Vance was unavoidably detained by an administrative transit delay at the international terminal. However, as senior managing director, she has executed full power of attorney to our firm. The estate has offered no admissible rebuttal to our quiet-title claim on Pier 14. We ask for immediate execution of the conveyance order."
"Is that correct, Mr. Vance?" Judge Holbrook looked at me. "You are appearing pro se on behalf of your father’s estate?"
"I am, Your Honor," I said. I stepped to the center podium, untying the green fishing line from my wrist and laying the frayed nylon knot gently on the wooden railing. Beside it, I placed the damp, folded passenger voucher from the gate kiosk, stamped at eight-twelve this morning. "Ms. Vance wasn't detained by transit. She was taken into custody at Gate 42 by Port Authority police for attempting to transport altered maritime deeds out of state."
Pendergast slammed his palm onto the desk. "This is outrageous slander! There is no record—"
"Quiet, Mr. Pendergast," Holbrook said, her voice dropping an octave into pure ice. She turned to Miller. "Officer, identify yourself for the record."
Miller stepped to the bar, presenting his badge and the sealed court packet Magistrate Thorne had signed via secure link. "Officer James Miller, Port Authority Police, Marine Division. At eight-thirty-two AM, our unit intercepted an unmanifested cargo container scheduled for unscheduled outbound transit on Flight 204. Upon forensic scan, the cargo was found to contain thirty-four original harbor master dispatch ledgers registered to Thomas Vance, bearing the 1988 city surveyor’s blue wax seals. Ms. Vance and her operations director, Paul Harris, are currently being held at the airport precinct under suspicion of evidence tampering and document theft."
The courtroom went entirely dead. Even the junior associates stopped scribbling.
Judge Holbrook leaned forward over her bench, looking at the grey case on the table. "Open it."
The snaps of the container echoed like rifle shots through the high-ceilinged room. Miller lifted the heavy foam insert, revealing the stack of blue cloth-bound volumes, their edges yellowed with salt air, their spine threads still holding intact.