“And it’s your wish to proceed pro se?”
“It is.”
Somebody in the gallery made a noise. To the Ashgroves, that decision confirmed the only two theories they had ever entertained about me: that I had lost my mind, or that I had run out of money.
For seven years they had described me — in the third person, at their own dinner table, while I was in the room — as a charity case.
Rowland had ended our marriage on the twenty-first of August with a white envelope on the kitchen island.
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