Page 113 of The Lonely Road

The Delta County Justice Center sits on Palmer Street in the middle of Delta, a low brick building from the 1970s that has been added to twice since and doesn’t quite cohere architecturally but does the job. I’ve been here four times since taking over Mac’s practice. I know the parking lot, the security desk, how the morning light comes through the east-facing windows in the lobby and makes the whole place look more important than it is.

I know the water courtroom on the second floor—Room 214, half the size of the criminal courtrooms, with no jury box because water court doesn’t use juries, just a judge and whatever documentation the parties have assembled over months or years of preparation.

The gallery has three rows of bench seating and a low wooden rail that separates it from the well of the court. The plaintiff’s table is on the left. The defendant’s table is on the right. Two windows on the north wall look out over a parking structure—not scenic, but enough light comes in that the fluorescents aren’t entirely depressing.

I find Clara in the lobby. She’s alone—the kids are at school. She took the day off work. She’s wearing a dark green jacket with her jeans—what she calls her professional attire.

I give her a hug when I see her. She gives me a once-over. I’m in what I think of as my Aspen clothes—a charcoal Hugo Boss suit I bought a couple of years ago. I dropped a grand on it without thinking. Those were different days.

It’s my lucky suit—the one I wore when I wanted to win, when I was on the other side of these cases. It fits differently now. Or I fit it differently. I’m not sure which.

Clara wiggles her eyebrows. “You look—well, like a boss lady lawyer.”

I laugh. “You look like a boss lady rancher.”

“I washed my hair.” She gives it a flip. “And I have mascara on. That’s a win.”

Mac arrives stubbornly—even though he was told to stay home. He’s still concussed, but he insisted. The only saving grace is that he let Amos drive him. He’s in jeans, cowboy boots, and a jacket that I don’t think has been dry-cleaned since the Clinton administration, and it shows.

He takes his hat off when he sees us. He kisses Clara’s cheek and pats my shoulder.

“Seriously, Mac? You’re still concussed.” I shake my head.

“Concussions are for wusses.”

Amos lets out an exaggerated sigh and greets Clara and me. “Call me when you’re done, I’ll come and get you. Oh, and Taya, don’t let him go anywhere on his own.”

“I can’t go anywhere. I don’t have my truck keys,” Mac grunts.

“I had to wrestle the bastard to get them,” Amos tells us, and I don’t think he’s exaggerating. “I have a meeting down the street, so I’ll see y’all soon. Good luck, Taya, Clara.”

We walk into the courtroom together.

Mac sits right behind the defendant’s table as Clara and I take our seats. I organize my files as Clara sits browsing through her phone. She’s nervous. We both want the judge to deny High Mesa’s challenge and end this litigation now. But there’s a chance they will prevail, and we’ll have to get ready for a full hearing.

Mac raises his eyebrows at my files and the tabs. “What are those colored thingies for?”

“Telling me what is what.”

I have everything on my computer—but hard copies are still part of this business. I’ve organized by colored tabs and cross-referenced by exhibit number. I check the documents again. It’s my process.

Nothing makes a lawyer look more unprepared and sloppy than not being able to find what they need when they need it. That’s especially relevant before Judge Raymond Colbeck, who has been on the water court bench for nineteen years and knows his case law.

I have appeared before him before. He’s a compact man in his early sixties, methodical, gray at the temples, who has developed a finely calibrated sense of when a case is solid and when it isn’t.

He leans toward development—everyone in the valley knows it, it’s not a secret, it’s just how he reads the public interest—but he’s not corrupt. He’s not going to rule against clear evidence. What he will do is give weight to procedural questions, to technical defects, to arguments that are properly documented and formally submitted. He likes his law clean.

I intend to give it to him clean.

The courtroom fills.

Opposing counsel arrives at ten past nine with three people—Harold Aldridge in front, then two associates I recognize from previous filings, both in their thirties, both in suits that cost more than Clara’s monthly mortgage payment.

Aldridge is the Houston firm’s senior litigator for western land acquisition cases, which means he has done this exact thing in six other states and knows what he’s doing. He’s tall, silver-haired, with the unhurried authority of a man who bills four hundred dollars an hour and has never once in his career been rushed. He carries a single leather portfolio. His associates carry everything else.

He nods at me when he takes his seat. I nod back. We’ve met a few times in depositions—but we’ve never been in court together before.

I turn my attention to the gallery side, where the plaintiff’s table is already settled.