“You did fine.”
“I forgot the exact minute I opened the door.”
“You said you didn’t remember. That’s the right answer.”
He looked relieved. “I was worried they’d think that meant I was lying.”
“Arthur, you’re allowed to forget a minute in a terrible morning.”
I thought of how I’d spent years protecting myself with photographs, because I knew an uncertain person was often treated as a dishonest one. Arthur was learning, late in life, that you could be careful and truthful without being perfect.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT — The Work Behind a Number
The defense challenged the repair estimate more aggressively than anything else. It was understandable: almost two hundred thousand dollars for paint and bodywork sounded outrageous if you didn’t know what had been damaged.
Camille Rivera, the lead restoration technician, testified after reviewing her credentials and the documented repair process. She explained what the red paint had reached, why certain contaminated parts couldn’t safely be refinished, and why the custom finish required controlled stages rather than a quick respray.
The defense showed a photograph of the Lamborghini shortly before it was moved from my driveway.
“Would you agree,” the lawyer asked, “that most of the damage appears to be paint on the surface?”
“From that photograph alone, you cannot determine how deep the contamination traveled,” Camille replied.
“Couldn’t a professional detailer remove the paint?”
“Not without first evaluating the underlying finish and all affected components. In this case, the work we documented showed it had entered places where aggressive cleaning would cause additional damage or leave unsafe contamination.”
“Isn’t it convenient that the owner himself works in automotive detailing?”
Camille shook her head. “His occupation doesn’t determine the repair requirements. Measurements, inspection, manufacturer procedures, and the documented condition do.”
The lawyer pressed her on individual costs. Camille answered patiently. She admitted where the estimate was preliminary and explained why later findings could adjust it. I found that honesty more persuasive than any grand declaration.
My own testimony came after lunch. I gave my name, occupation, and the date I’d acquired the car. I described my father, the years at the shop, the purchase, and my care of the vehicle. Then I described the morning.
The prosecutor showed the jury the video of me arriving on the driveway. I had seen it before. I was not prepared for how it would feel with twelve people watching me watch my own humiliation.
Dylan’s voice filled the courtroom: “You like the new color?”
I remembered the smell before I remembered the words. Wet paint, hot concrete, coffee cooling beside the flowerpot. For a second the courtroom blurred. I placed my hands on the witness stand and kept speaking.
The defense asked whether I had ever considered that Dylan thought the paint would wash off. I answered that I couldn’t know what he believed. I could only describe what he did and what he said.
“Were you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want him punished?”
“I wanted him to stop. Afterward I wanted the incident documented and the law followed.”
“Do you think being angry might have affected your memory?”
“Yes, which is why I took photographs immediately and relied on time-stamped video for events I didn’t witness.”
The lawyer paused. Then asked whether the car had made me feel superior to my neighbors.
“No,” I said. “It made me feel grateful to the people who helped me earn it.”
