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He didn’t realize that by insulting the “crumbling brick pile,” he had just insulted his own landlord.
Judge Sullivan slowly took off her reading glasses.
She didn’t look angry anymore.
She looked bored.
And that was so much worse.
“Mr. Caldwell,” she said, voice quiet and dangerously calm, “I am going to give you ten seconds to sit down and shut your mouth.”
Richard opened his mouth to argue.
Bennett grabbed him and physically yanked him back into his chair.
“Good,” Judge Sullivan said, as if she’d just trained a barking dog.
She picked up the next document in the stack.
“Now that we’ve established your opinion,” she continued, “let’s look at facts.”
She slid a single piece of paper across the polished wood. It stopped inches from Richard’s trembling hand.
“Because according to this deed,” Judge Sullivan said, “the Meridian—the crumbling brick pile you just mentioned—she doesn’t just live there.”
Richard blinked.
Judge Sullivan’s tone didn’t change.
“She owns it.”
The air in the courtroom tightened. Even the gallery leaned forward, hungry.
Judge Sullivan tapped the paper with her finger.
“Unit 4B is indeed a mail drop,” she said. “You were right about that, Mr. Caldwell. But Miss Caldwell doesn’t rent it.”
She paused, letting the words land.
“She owns the entire building, including the commercial suites on the third floor.”
Her eyes lifted.
“The suites your firm currently occupies.”
Richard’s face went slack for a second, like his mind had been unplugged. He stared at the paper, then at me, then at the judge.
“That—” he began, voice cracking. “That’s impossible.”
He shook his head rapidly, like he could shake reality away.
“My landlord is a corporate entity,” he insisted. “I pay rent to Vanguard Real Estate. I’ve never written a check to her. I’ve never—”
“Vanguard,” Judge Sullivan repeated, tasting the word like it had a bitter aftertaste.