She'd been told to describe what she'd observed. Not what she thought. What he did.
"He completed the project on time?"
"Yes."
Because he'd worked through two weekends without telling anyone, because the client's daughter needed the report for a custody hearing. She didn't say that.
"He followed established protocols?"
"Yes."
Because he'd rewritten them first, recognizing the originals would produce a defensible but wrong result. She didn't say that either.
"Any instances where he deviated from instructions?"
"No."
Because he'd learned to change what the instructions said before anyone issued them. The only effective rebellion was prevention.
She answered every question about conduct. The questions were designed to produce a record of behavior—a list of verbs. Did. Completed. Followed. Filed.
Every accurate statement about what he did was an inadmissible statement about who he was. The verbs were all correct. His character hid inside them like a frequency inside a waveform—present in every oscillation, visible only if you knew how to listen.
"Would you characterize his work as reliable?"
The word that meant both "does what's expected" and "has judgment you can count on." The brief needed the first meaning. The truth was the second.
"Yes."
The court reporter typed it. It entered the record as conduct. Only she knew she'd testified to character.