Arthur’s jaw tightened into an ugly knot of muscle, his breath coming in heavy, furious rasps, but he slowly sank back down into the wooden pew under the bailiff’s stern glare.
Vivian grabbed her husband’s sleeve, her face suddenly pale, looking around at the startled spectators who had turned to stare at them.
Martin Voss was sweating now, a thin sheen of moisture glistening on his forehead beneath his styled gray hair.
“Your Honor, this is unverified hearsay and wild fabrication from an unrepresented party attempting to stage a public spectacle,” Voss pleaded, his voice trembling slightly.
“If Mrs. Hale has legitimate evidence of corporate commingling, she must produce certified forensic audits, not empty theatrical accusations.”
“I am happy to oblige opposing counsel’s request for forensic documentation,” I said calmly, opening the manila folder resting in my hands.
“I hand to the bailiff certified copies of three corporate tax filings, two commercial bills of lading, and four private wire transfers bearing the personal signature of Preston Alexander Hale.”
