The Case of the Million-Dollar Marble
Hear this story read aloud.
It was one of those mornings that smelled like cold coffee and nerves. Court day. A few months back, I inspected a marble floor where someone decided to take an unscheduled back dive and ended up tangled in a legal net. A classic slip-and-fall. The kind of case that makes insurance companies twitch and slick lawyers start sharpening their depositions.
I wasn’t exactly looking forward to locking eyes with a courtroom full of Armani-wrapped sharks, but hey—I’m the Stone Detective. This is what I do.
Just as I was grabbing my coat and giving my tie a half-hearted yank, the phone rang. My lawyer. Nervous voice, laundry list of do’s and don’ts. “Dress professional, answer only what you’re asked, don’t make jokes.” I listened, even if I didn’t plan on following all of it. He was sweating bullets, and for good reason—it was a five-million-dollar case and a jury trial. I told him to relax. I’d handled worse… including a bathroom floor that exploded into efflorescence like a science fair volcano.
I jumped into the Woodie, fired her up, and rumbled off to the courthouse.
Once I got there, I was told to wait outside the courtroom. Apparently, expert witnesses are like vampires—can’t be let in until invited. So I paced the hallway, eyeballing the faded portraits like they were suspects. After what felt like an eternity, the doors creaked open. Showtime.
Inside looked like a fashion shoot for “Lawyers Weekly.” Everyone was in three-piece Italian suits and enough cologne to fumigate a small village. Me? I was rocking khakis and my trusty tweed jacket with elbow patches. Jury gave me the once-over like I was a janitor who wandered in by mistake. Didn’t bother me—I wasn’t the one on trial.
Sworn in and seated, my lawyer started his questioning. All marble floor stuff—finish, traction, standards. My answers? Smooth and solid. Got a few chuckles from the jury. I was winning them over with charm, fact, and a hint of elbow-patch charisma.
Then came cross-examination.
Enter Slick Willy—thirty-something, hair so gelled you could skate on it, suit pressed tight enough to wrinkle his ego. He strutted to the podium like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. His mission? Trip me up and twist my words. My mission? Don’t let him.
He started tossing out questions like confetti at a wedding. I parried each one like a seasoned pro. That’s when he went for the dramatic flourish.
He stepped behind his chair and pulled out a giant photo of the marble lobby like it was Exhibit A in the Trial of the Century.
Slick Willy: “Mr. Stone Detective, do you recognize this picture and where it is?”
Me: “Yes, I do.”
(He frowned. Rookie mistake—he only asked if I recognized it.)
Slick Willy: “Can you tell me where it is?”
Me: “Yes, I can.”
(Still playing by the rules. His rules.)
Slick Willy: “Can you answer the question correctly?”
Me: “I am answering your question.”
I could see the steam rising from his perfectly groomed temples.
Slick Willy: “Alright then, looking at this picture and the marble floor, can you tell me how old that marble is?”
I leaned in, just a bit.
Me: “I can’t tell you the exact age… but I can estimate.”
Slick Willy: “Go ahead.”
Me: “Anywhere from five to ten…” (I paused for dramatic effect) “…million years old.”
The jury broke into laughter. The judge looked like he was about to fall out of his chair. Slick Willy’s face turned the same shade as a pink granite remnant. He muttered, “No further questions,” and collapsed into his chair with a defeated squeak.
Now, I wasn’t trying to be a wise guy. But I’ve waited my whole career for a question like that. And to land that punchline in front of a jury? Pure magic.
We won the case.
Another marble mystery closed. Another courtroom educated. And the Stone Detective? Just doing his job—with a little style, a lot of stone sense, and one well-timed joke.
