"I asked politely," Elijah replied.
A couple of people chuckled, this time not at Elijah but with him. The judge scanned the statement.
"She confirms that Isaiah was not inside her home," Tolbert said. "She says she did not see him at all that day. She learned that someone had been arrested in connection with her house only after reading the local newspaper."
Tolbert's eyes narrowed. His smirk had disappeared. Now he was thinking.
The courtroom door creaked open as someone slipped inside late. It was Mr. Klein, the town's unofficial court watcher, retired, curious, and always carrying a notepad. He whispered to a woman in the back row, "What is happening?"
"Some kid is defending his brother," she whispered back. "And he is winning."
Earlier that morning, outside the courthouse, Elijah had stood near the cracked sidewalk with his brother's former lawyer, Dwayne Carter, a few feet from the rusted bicycle rack. Carter had looked down at him like he was trying to solve a mathematics problem he had never studied.
"You cannot do this, kid," Carter had said. "Court is not some school project."
"I know," Elijah answered calmly. "But you do not believe my brother, and I do."
"Belief does not win trials."
"No, but the truth might."
Carter had shaken his head, muttered something about Elijah watching too many movies, and walked away.
Now, inside the courtroom, Elijah made good on every hour he had spent studying alone. He remembered the late nights at the Camilla Public Library, listening to recorded legal lectures through a cracked phone, watching old trials online, and reading from stacks of used law books he had bought for five dollars each at a secondhand shop in Albany.
He did not have a degree, but he had facts. He did not have courtroom experience, but he had instinct. Most importantly, he had momentum.
Judge Tolbert cleared his throat. "Let me understand this correctly. The arresting officer's timeline is inaccurate, the alleged victim denies that anything was stolen, and there is no proof of forced entry."