Arthur’s performance continued its downward spiral. He rambled, he contradicted himself, he even managed to accuse the simulated opposition of a completely unrelated breach, drawing a sharp rebuke from Judge Holbrook. The senior partners around the table shifted uncomfortably, their faces now openly disapproving. The firm’s reputation, Arthur’s legacy, was being systematically dismantled right before their eyes.
He paused, gesturing wildly at a document on his table. “Maya, fetch me the third Exhibit A, under Section B-4. The one with the green tab. Quickly, girl.”
There was no green tab. No such document existed in the simulated file. It was a deliberate misdirection, a test of my composure. I met his eyes briefly, a flicker of defiance passing between us.
“There is no Exhibit A with a green tab, Father,” I stated calmly, my voice low but clear. “The document you require is Exhibit C, subsection 2. It is already cross-referenced on the digital ledger.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He clearly hadn’t expected me to correct him so publicly. But Judge Holbrook merely nodded, her gaze unblinking.
While Arthur continued his reckless charade, I worked in silence. My fingers flew across my keyboard, meticulously entering every procedural step, every piece of admissible evidence, every correctly cited precedent. He was creating a mess, and I was, just as meticulously, cleaning it up in the official digital record.
Each time he skipped a required filing, I filed it. When he misstated a critical date, I corrected it on the firm’s official ledger with the appropriate timestamp. His blunders were becoming a perfect, undeniable record of his intentional incompetence. It was a silent, digital counter-offensive, a flawless audit trail of his failure, meticulously prepared to contradict his every error. The partners might not have noticed the subtle digital entries, but Judge Holbrook, with her keen eye for detail, occasionally glanced at my screen, her expression unreadable.
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