When Judge Elden Marwick looked down at my coffee-stained apron, asking if my ‘genius brain’ could count beyond ten, and let my parents laugh as if they were already burying me, he didn’t know that the woman they were mocking had a tape recorder in her pocket, a Harvard law degree in her briefcase, and a grandmother who had prepared a final trap specifically for rooms like this.

The most dangerous person in the room is not the richest one. It is the person who knows they deserve to be there even with empty pockets.”

I took that lesson seriously. In high school I joined debate and found out I had a talent for dismantling arguments.

I liked structure. I liked logic. I liked the clean, cold satisfaction of pulling a bad claim apart until there was nothing left standing but the truth.

When I won a regional tournament, Eleanor handed me her notebook afterward. It was full of critiques. “You rushed your opening.

Your economic rebuttal was sloppy. You let him interrupt you twice.”

Then, after a beat, she added, “You won. But you left openings.

A better opponent would have gutted you.”

It was the greatest compliment she could have given me. She respected me enough