"Isaiah... they came to my office tonight. They destroyed everything. Files, computers, case documents, everything."
"Diana—"
"They left a note." Her voice cracked. "It said, 'You have a 5-year-old daughter. Think about that.'" Silence. "Isaiah, I can't... I thought I was brave enough for this. I thought I could stand up to them. But when they threatened my daughter..." She was crying now. "I'm withdrawing from the case. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, but I can't risk my baby's life. I just can't."
The line went dead.
Isaiah sat alone in the hospital waiting room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped its steady rhythm.
His brother was in the ICU, barely alive. His father was in solitary confinement, unreachable. His lawyer had abandoned him. His evidence was fake. His scholarship was gone. And the hearing was in 4 days.
He had nothing left.
The next morning, Isaiah went to the library. He didn't know why—habit, maybe, or desperation, or just the need to be somewhere that wasn't the hospital.
Walter Bennett was at his desk, same as always. When he saw Isaiah's face—the hollow eyes, the slumped shoulders, the defeated expression—he stood up immediately. "What happened?"
Isaiah told him everything: the attack on Darnell, Terrence's betrayal, Diana's withdrawal, the threats, the destroyed evidence, the suspended scholarship.
When he finished, Mr. Bennett was quiet for a long time. Then he walked to the back of the library, pulled a thick law book from the shelf, and opened it. Inside, nestled between the pages, was a USB drive.
"I made a copy of your files 3 weeks ago," he said. "Everything you compiled, just in case."
Isaiah stared at him. "Why would you do that?"
Mr. Bennett placed the drive in Isaiah's hand. "Because my father died in prison for something he didn't do. And because I never had the courage to fight for him." He met Isaiah's eyes. "You have that courage. Don't waste it."
That night, Isaiah went back to the hospital. Darnell had been moved out of the ICU. "Stable," the doctor said, "but still critical." He was conscious now, barely, talking through swollen lips and broken teeth.
Isaiah sat beside his brother's bed for hours, holding his hand, not speaking. Around midnight, Darnell's eyes fluttered open.
"Isaiah?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm here."
Darnell tried to smile; it looked more like a grimace. "You're still going to do it, aren't you?"
Isaiah nodded. "I have to."
Darnell was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, painfully, he squeezed Isaiah's hand. "Good. I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
"Darnell..."
"Shut up and listen." His voice was weak, but firm. "I spent my whole life telling you to keep your head down. Stay safe. Don't make waves. And look where it got me." He took a shaky breath. "You're braver than me, little brother. Braver than Dad. Braver than anyone I know. So you go in there tomorrow, and you show them what happens when they mess with the Greens."
Isaiah blinked back tears. "I'll win, Darnell. I promise."
"I know you will. I know."
The morning of the continued hearing, the courtroom was packed. Word had spread. Reporters from the Tribune filled the press section, notebooks open, pens ready. Representatives from Internal Affairs sat in the back row, watching with careful eyes. Community activists, church members, neighbors from the South Side—they filled every available seat, spilling into the hallway.
Isaiah walked in alone. No lawyer. No backup. Just a 16-year-old kid in his brother's white dress shirt, carrying a folder of documents and a USB drive.
Caldwell entered with confidence. He had heard about Diana's withdrawal, about the destroyed evidence. He had seen the articles discrediting Isaiah. He thought he had won.
"Mr. Green," Caldwell said, settling into his chair, "I see your attorney has decided not to continue. Do you still wish to proceed without representation?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"And do you have any new evidence to present?"
Isaiah's heart pounded. The USB in his pocket felt like it weighed 1,000 pounds. Without Diana to argue its admissibility, without anyone to back him up...
"Your Honor, I—"
The courtroom doors burst open.
Terrence Williams walked in.
Isaiah's blood ran cold. The traitor. The spy. What is he doing here?
But Terrence wasn't looking at Caldwell. He was looking at Isaiah. And in his hand was a different USB drive.
"Your Honor," Terrence said, his voice shaking but clear, "my name is Officer Terrence Williams, Chicago Police Department. I'm here to testify for the appellant."