The judge laughed when he saw the teenager walk in wearing his father's suit, but he was not ready for what happened next.
Nobody expected the boy in the oversized navy suit to speak. He walked through the double doors of the Miller County Courthouse in Camilla, Georgia, as though he had done it before. Only the jacket did not quite fit. The sleeves ran long, hiding most of his hands, his tie was crooked, and the briefcase he carried was scuffed, as though it had been passed down through several lifetimes.
Still, the way Elijah Carrington moved was calm and straight-backed, his eyes fixed forward as though he were there for business. Inside the courtroom, the crowd turned and whispers began to buzz. Who was this boy? A clerk's younger cousin, someone's assistant, or a kid who had wandered in off the street?
Judge Raymond Tolbert looked up from his bench. His reading glasses sat low on his nose. He said nothing at first and merely smirked. It was not subtle, but one of those sideways grins that said everything without a word, the kind of smile that made a person's stomach turn.
Elijah did not flinch. He walked directly to the defense table, opened the briefcase, and removed three neatly stacked file folders and a worn copy of the Georgia Code. He placed them carefully on the table like someone lining up tools before beginning work.
Tolbert finally spoke. "Are you lost, son?"
"No, sir," Elijah answered, his voice steady. "I am here representing my brother, Isaiah Carrington."
A pause fell so heavily that even the courtroom clock seemed to hold its breath. The bailiff blinked. The prosecutor, Andrea Lindholm, looked up from her notes with one eyebrow raised, while someone in the third row tried to suppress a laugh.
Tolbert leaned back in his chair. "Representing? You mean observing?"
"No, sir. Representing."
Elijah held up a document, carefully notarized and signed. "Isaiah filed a pro se motion requesting self-representation. He then designated me under Georgia's lay-representation provisions to act as his representative."
Tolbert's smirk widened. "Son, this is not a mock trial. This is a felony case."
"I understand."
"You are seventeen."