Pamela Northcott, at the side of the stage, raised one eyebrow.
Then she nodded once, a small, courteous nod.
“Three minutes,” she said.
Tracy took a breath.
“The Overton family did not give two point four million dollars to this hospital,” she said.
“Overton Marine Survey did.”
“And Overton Marine Survey is owned by two people.”
“Fifty-one percent is held by Neal Overton’s widow.”
“And forty-nine percent is held by me.”
The silence that followed was like the moment before a wave breaks.
I felt my own mouth open.
Beside the stage, an elderly man in a gray suit stood up from the second row with a leather folder under his arm.
He had white hair, a bow tie, and the stooped, careful posture of a man who had spent forty years reading small print.
“Norman Harcourt,” he said, to the room.
“Attorney for the Neal Overton Revocable Trust.”
