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And behind it, against the rail, sits a man—mid-fifties, expensive suit, the type who doesn’t carry a briefcase because he doesn’t carry anything himself.

He is not local. He has the look of the kind of man who appears when the stakes are high enough to justify the travel.

“He’s High Mesa’s VP of Something,” Mac whispers from behind me. “Shane Tannenbaum.”

“Right.”

“He’s close friends with more than a few senators.”

“You mean he funds their campaigns?”

Mac taps the railing once with two fingers. “That’s correct.”

I think about it for a moment. “Otis Jessup, probably. Isn’t his son-in-law running a land development company?”

“Yeah. I hear they may have invested in some resort property up north.”

“Not the one that’s relevant to our case.” I glance through the case files for the High Mesa-backed resort—the three-hundred-million-dollar property for the wealthy, powered by Clara’s water.

“Can’t track all the shell companies these assholes keep popping out like farts from cowboys living off canned beans.”

I chuckle at that.

Judge Colbeck comes in at nine-thirty exactly, which is characteristic.

He settles, arranges his papers, glances at both tables over his reading glasses. “Whitman versus High Mesa Development Group,” he announces. “Preliminary hearing on the question of legal standing and the threshold showing required for the challenge to proceed.” He turns his attention to Aldridge. “Counsel for the plaintiff. You may proceed.”

Aldridge stands.

He begins with prior appropriation—the upstream diversion predating Clara’s claim.

Standard.

Expected.

I’ve addressed it three different ways in my filings, and as he speaks I watch Judge Colbeck’s face, which gives away nothing and is thereby telling me everything.

He’s read those filings.

He knows where this argument goes.

He’s letting Aldridge run it because that’s how courts work—you hear the thing before you rule on the thing—but his pen hasn’t moved in three minutes, which means nothing Aldridge is saying is surprising him.

When Aldridge finishes, I stand and go through our defense along with a running list of documentary record submissions.

The judge makes a note. I sit down.

Aldridge’s first associate leans toward him and says something quiet.

The Tom Reyes delivery notation comes next.

I was ready for this, have been since Clara sat in my office and told me about the neighbor arrangement during Deke’s illness. I’ve had two months to build the response, document the agricultural continuity, establish that the water stayed on the ranch, and the use never changed in kind.

Aldridge presents Jeb Cottonwood’s delivery log with the deliberate pacing. He’s good. He knows the material, and he’s presenting it clearly.

I respect it professionally.

Morally, he’s full of it.