Chapter 5: Everything She Built
The legal liaison's name was Constance Hale.
She was fifty-three years old, had spent two decades as an intellectual property attorney before moving into institutional consulting, and she wore the same gray coat to every professional engagement because, as she had once told Nia, it made people underestimate her by exactly the right amount.
She walked down the center aisle without hurrying and introduced herself to the panel.
"I'm here in an advisory capacity," she said, handing Carla a card.
"I've been retained by Ms.
Nia regarding this matter.
I'm not here to interrupt your process.
I'm here because there is additional documentation that may be relevant to your deliberations, and I wanted to make sure it was available to you if you wanted it."
Carla looked at the card.
"What kind of documentation?"
"A chain of custody record for the stolen drive," Constance said.
"Building access logs from Ms.
Nia's studio during the relevant three-day window.
And a sworn statement from a witness who saw Ms.
Dessa in the building on one of those days."
The room didn't erupt.
It did something quieter and more serious than erupt.
Dessa's head turned sharply.
"That is—"
"A statement," Constance said, without looking at her.
"Signed, dated, and notarized.
I have copies for each member of the panel."
She produced three envelopes from her coat and placed them on the table.
Dessa took a half-step forward.
"She's trying to manipulate this competition with legal—"
"Ms.
Dessa." Carla's voice was flat now.
Something had changed in it.
The courtesy was still present but the warmth was entirely gone.
"I need you to stop speaking until you are addressed directly."
Dessa stopped.
Priya opened her envelope.
She read the first page.
Her expression did not change but she turned to the second page faster than she might otherwise have done.
Nia watched her.
She had read the statement herself, twice, the night Constance had brought it to her apartment.
The witness was a woman named Gloria, who worked the front security desk of Nia's building on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Gloria had recognized Dessa from a fashion magazine she kept at the desk.
She had noted the visit in the building's informal log — not a formal security record, but a handwritten sheet Gloria maintained for her own reference — because Dessa was not on the guest list and had told Gloria she was there to drop off fabric samples for a designer on the fourth floor.
Nia's studio was on the fourth floor.
There were no other designers on the fourth floor.
Dessa had spent forty-five minutes in the building.
Roland set his envelope down and looked at Dessa.
"Were you at this building on the date noted in this statement?"
"I don't remember every building I've visited over the past two months," Dessa said.
"That's not—"
"The building is at 114 Carver Street," Roland said.
"It houses only design and textile studios.
It is not a building one would visit accidentally."
Dessa's chin lifted.
"I may have visited a colleague."
"Which colleague?"
A pause.
"I don't see how that's relevant."
Roland picked up his pen.
He wrote something on the notepad in front of him.
Nia couldn't see what it was.
She didn't need to.
Marcus Webb had moved.
He was standing now, near the end of his row, speaking quietly to a man Nia didn't recognize — younger, with the alert posture of someone who had been briefed and was now being activated.
Constance stepped back from the table and came to stand beside Nia.
"How are you holding up?" she said under her breath.
"I'm fine," Nia said.
"You don't have to be fine.
You're allowed to feel whatever this is."
Nia looked at the champagne gown one last time.
The beading along the bodice.
The way the skirt fell exactly as she had drawn it, exactly as she had spent four months refining it in her mind before she had ever put a pencil to paper.
"I feel like I'm watching someone return something that was always mine," she said.
"It's not exciting.
It just feels correct."
Constance was quiet for a moment.
"That," she said, "is exactly what justice feels like when it's real."
At the judges' table, Carla Voss was writing.
She wrote for a long time without speaking.
When she finished, she set her pen down and looked up at the room.
"We're going to take a brief recess," she said.
"Fifteen minutes.
When we return, the panel will have a formal statement."
She stood.
Dessa did not move from the center of the stage.
May you like
She was still wearing Nia's dress.
And for the first time all evening, she seemed to understand that she had been standing inside someone else's creation this entire night — and that the whole room had just been given every reason to know it.
