The sound of electric clippers reached me before I saw my daughter.

Monday morning arrived under a sky the color of dirty tin.

Tessa called at seven. "Harlan Vance filed an emergency motion to seal the courtroom for tomorrow’s proceeding. He’s claiming the presence of the public and press will irrevocably prejudice Vivian’s right to a fair sentencing."

"Can he do that?" I asked, balancing the phone on my shoulder while pouring Ellie’s oatmeal.

"Not usually on an open allocution," Tessa said, her voice tight with strain. "But Judge Harlan was replaced on the docket an hour ago. He took an emergency medical leave—gallbladder flare-up, supposedly. Judge Pettigrew has been assigned to Courtroom B."

"Pettigrew?"

"He was appointed by Commissioner Barnes’s committee twelve years ago," Tessa said flatly. "He’s in their pocket, Sarah. If Pettigrew seals the court, he can accept Vance’s Alford plea behind closed doors, sentence Vivian to suspended probation without a day in jail, and seal the transcript. The wire transfer, the water consortium, the whole rotten setup will disappear into the archives."

"Not if the town is there," I said.

Silence on the other end of the line. Then Tessa asked, "What do you mean?"

"The people in this town might be set in their ways, Tessa, but they hate being made fools of by Edmond lawyers and corrupt commissioners. They think Vivian is just a pathetic woman who lost her temper over a family squabble. They don't know Barnes is trying to steal the water basin out from under the north county ranchers."

"Sarah, you can't just leak grand jury material—"

"I’m not leaking grand jury material," I said, looking out the window at Owen, who was hitching the trailer to his truck. "I’m going to tell the truth to the people who buy feed at Calloway’s."

For the next four hours, Mae and I didn't touch the housework. We drove. We stopped at the feed store. We stopped at the diner by the grain elevators. We stopped at the volunteer fire hall where the volunteer captains were doing maintenance on the water tenders.

I didn't plead for sympathy. I didn't show them pictures of Ellie’s sheared head.

I showed them the public state filings from the Oklahoma Water Resources Board, showing the proposed drainage pipeline that would redirect five thousand gallons an hour from our shared creek basin to a private commercial subdivision six miles away—signed by Commissioner Barnes and Frank Gresham.

"Vivian didn't attack Ellie because she hated my hair," I told Ray Calloway in front of six farmers eating chili at the counter. "She attacked Ellie because Barnes paid her fifty grand to run us out before the water rights expired this November. Tomorrow morning, Judge Pettigrew is going to close the courtroom doors and make sure none of you ever find out where your well water went."

Ray looked from the certified papers down into his coffee mug. He didn't spit. He didn't scoff. He wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, stood up, and looked at the two men sitting in the booth behind him.