Julian walked onto the fourth floor at ten past three, in a navy suit that had crossed the country without a crease.
He had brought a woman from a court-reporting firm in Los Angeles. She carried a tripod in one hand and a stenograph case in the other, and she was setting up at the foot of Raymond's bed before anyone had introduced her.
Julian turned to Aria.
"You'll wait next door."
"He's my father."
"Which is why." Julian adjusted his glasses. "Lydia's lawyer will say you sat beside him and fed him every line. If you want this to hold, you're in the other room."
Aria looked past him. Raymond was sitting up against the pillows, shaved and combed, in a clean gown, frowning at the camera on the tripod.
"Can I listen?"
"Stay out of his sight. I don't care what you hear."
