Chapter 3: The Man Garrick Thought He'd Buried
The man who walked through the door was not young.
He moved carefully, with a slight stiffness in one knee, and he carried a leather briefcase that had seen better decades.
His suit was plain.
His face was not.
Garrick knew that face.
"No," Garrick said.
It came out barely above a whisper.
"That's not possible."
His attorney put a hand on his arm.
"Mr.
Sterling.
Sit down."
"That man is supposed to be in—" Garrick stopped himself.
Judge Blackwood watched the door.
"Mr.
Holt.
Thank you for making the journey."
The man — Holt — gave a small nod and took a seat in the gallery, one row behind Marlowe's table.
He set his briefcase across his knees and folded his hands on top of it.
He did not look at Garrick.
Cordelia leaned toward her son.
"Who is that?"
Garrick didn't answer.
Delphine's eyes moved between Garrick and the stranger.
"Garrick.
Who is he?"
"Be quiet," Garrick said through his teeth.
Marlowe's attorney, a composed woman named Frances Vane, rose from her chair.
"Your Honor, with the court's permission, we'd like to submit three additional documents into evidence.
These were referenced in Mrs.
Ashby's letter and have since been verified by an independent financial examiner."
"Objection," Garrick's attorney said immediately.
"We haven't had time to review—"
"They were filed with this court eleven days ago," Frances said.
She didn't raise her voice.
"Copies were sent to opposing counsel the same morning."
Judge Blackwood looked at Garrick's attorney over his glasses.
"Mr.
Crane.
Were you or were you not served with these documents?"
A pause that lasted too long.
"We were, Your Honor."
"Then your objection is noted and overruled.
Proceed, Ms.
Vane."
Frances placed three folders on the judge's bench.
She returned to her table without hurry.
Marlowe kept her eyes forward.
Judge Blackwood opened the first folder.
He read for nearly a minute without speaking.
Then he opened the second.
Garrick's leg had started to bounce under the table.
"Mr.
Sterling," the judge said, without looking up.
"These documents show that Sterling Capital Holdings was incorporated using an initial capital contribution of four hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
Is that correct?"
"I'd have to consult with my attorney before—"
"The documents show it.
I'm asking you to confirm it."
"Yes," Garrick said.
"Approximately."
"And where did that capital come from?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"From my personal savings."
Judge Blackwood set the folder down.
He looked at Garrick directly.
"Mr.
Holt.
Would you like to speak to that?"
The man in the gallery opened his briefcase.
He removed a single document — one page, worn at the fold — and handed it forward to the court clerk.
Marlowe had seen that document before.
She had found it in a box at the back of her mother's closet, three weeks after her mother passed.
It had taken her two more weeks to understand what she was looking at.
And one phone call to find the man who had signed it.
Judge Blackwood received the page.
He read it.
He set it beside the others.
"Mr.
Sterling," he said.
"The four hundred and thirty thousand dollars used to found your company came from a personal loan made by Mrs.
Ashby's late mother.
Signed, witnessed, and notarized.
Repayment terms included." He tapped the page.
"There is no record of repayment."
The room was absolutely still.
Delphine turned to look at Garrick.
He was staring at the table.
"That money," Judge Blackwood continued, "combined with Mrs.
Ashby's documented contribution of labor, strategy, and client development during the company's first four years, forms the basis of her co-founder claim." He closed the folder.
"Mr.
Crane, I suggest you speak with your client during recess.
Because right now, his position has changed considerably."
Garrick's attorney leaned in close and said something low and urgent.
Garrick shook his head once.
Then he looked across the aisle — directly at Marlowe — for the first time since the hearing began.
She met his gaze and held it.
He looked away first.
Recess was called.
And as people stood and moved and murmured, Cordelia Sterling walked to the far end of the gallery, took out her phone, and made a call.
She turned her back to the room.
But Marlowe's attorney was already watching her.
Frances leaned close to Marlowe's ear.
May you like
"She's calling someone.
We need to know who."
