Then the judge — the Honorable Thomas Harmon, sixty-six, thirty years on the bench — began reviewing the case file.
He turned one page.
Then another.
Suddenly, he stopped.
His eyes remained fixed on a single document.
It was the third exhibit in my response, filed six weeks ago, on letterhead my parents’ attorney had apparently mistaken for a form.
Several long seconds passed.
Then he slowly looked up at me.
The courtroom grew quiet.
My parents exchanged confused glances.
The judge leaned back slightly and narrowed his eyes.
“Wait a moment,” he said carefully.
His gaze never left mine.
“You’re JAG Officer Caroline Ostrander?”
“Lieutenant Commander, Your Honor.
Judge Advocate General’s Corps.
United States Navy.”
“Eleven years.”
Gil Farrow’s pen stopped moving.
My father’s mouth opened.
My mother’s hand went to the pearls.
“Counsel,” the judge said, turning to Farrow, “your petition describes the respondent as unemployed and without fixed residence for eleven years.”
“Your Honor, we — ”
“Her fixed residence has been a naval air station.”
“Her employment has been prosecuting fraud for the United States government.”
He set the page down.
