Callum stared at his lawyer, his mouth open in disbelief.

“Martin, what are you doing?” Callum hissed, reaching for Voss’s sleeve.

Voss pulled his arm away, his expression rigid.

“We cannot represent a client when we cannot verify the authenticity of the evidence presented,” Voss said to the judge.

“We have reason to believe the medical records submitted by the respondent have been compromised.”

Vivian stood up from the gallery bench, her purse slipping to the floor.

“Martin, sit down,” Vivian commanded, her voice ringing through the room.

“Silence in the court,” the bailiff warned, stepping toward her.

Judge Mallory did not look at Vivian; her eyes were fixed on Callum.

“Mr. Prescott,” the judge said. “Is this true?”

“No, Your Honor,” Callum said, his voice rising. “This is a delaying tactic by my wife.”

He pointed a finger at me, his hand shaking.

“She is unfit,” Callum said. “The records from Dr. Whitaker prove she was admitted.”

“Dr. Whitaker is currently in federal custody,” Judge Mallory said flatly.

She picked up a single sheet of paper from her desk.