But the thing that mattered did not happen in a courtroom.
It happened on Delmar Avenue, on a Saturday, at the restaurant’s twentieth-anniversary dinner, which Vincent had planned in the spring — before the hearing — and had not, out of pride or arithmetic, canceled.
Sixty people.
Regulars.
The food critic from 2011.
Vincent’s mother and his two sisters.
Brianna, in a different red dress.
And a banner, across the awning, that said COSTA’S — 20 YEARS — SELF-MADE, WELL-FED, which Brianna had ordered and which, I was told, Vincent had approved without reading, which is the only way he has ever approved anything.
I came at seven.
With Cordelia.
With Rosalie, in her apron, carrying a basket.
And with a certified copy of a ninety-day notice that had been served on the restaurant’s registered address at nine that morning, which Vincent had not opened, because Vincent does not open envelopes from lawyers on the day of a party.
