The leather of his seat squeaked in the quiet room.

“Lucas, sit down,” Daniel said.

His voice dropped to a low, commanding whisper that always made my blood run cold.

Lucas did not look at his father.

He walked slowly toward the low gate that separated the gallery from the attorneys’ tables.

He reached into the pocket of his khaki trousers and pulled out a small black digital recorder.

“I have something the judge needs to hear,” Lucas said.

His voice was steady, much steadier than mine.

“Get that child back to his seat,” Daniel’s lawyer demanded, stepping forward.

Judge Vance raised her hand, silencing the lawyer instantly.

“Let the boy speak,” the judge said.

Lucas pressed a small silver button on the side of the device.

He held it up toward the microphone on the empty witness stand.

A loud static hiss filled the courtroom.

Then, Daniel’s voice came through the speaker, loud and clear.

“If your mother thinks she can take you away from me, she is stupider than I thought,” the recorded voice said.

“I own half the judges in this city, and I will make sure she ends up in a state psych ward before she gets a single dime of my family’s money.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Daniel’s face flushed a deep, angry red.

The veins in his neck stood out like thick cords.

He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the linoleum floor.

“That is a doctored recording,” Daniel said, his voice cracking.

“She forced him to record that.”

Judge Vance stared at Daniel, her eyes cold behind her silver-framed glasses.

“Sit down, Mr. Carter,” she said.

Her voice was dangerously quiet.

She looked back at Lucas, who was still holding the small black device.

“Lucas, bring that to my bailiff,” she said gently.

The bailiff stepped forward, his heavy leather belt clinking in the quiet room.