Travis swallowed. "He said, 'One anonymous call is all it takes in this town. Who are they going to believe, me or some kid with a smart mouth?'"
Isaiah slowly closed his eyes. The courtroom went still.
Elijah turned back to the judge. "Your Honor, I believe this demonstrates not only a pattern of misconduct, but also a personal bias that directly affected the arrest and the investigation."
Tolbert leaned back. His face suggested he wanted to argue, but the words did not come.
Elijah continued. "If we are calling this justice, then we need to stop pretending it begins with a uniform. It should begin with the truth. My brother is not perfect, but he did not do what he is accused of doing, and everything presented today proves that."
Tolbert looked at Lindholm. "Do you have a rebuttal?"
She hesitated. "I will need time to verify these new statements and documents."
Elijah was ready. "You may take time, but every day he spends in that cell is a day stolen from someone who has not had a fair chance to be heard."
Judge Tolbert did not answer immediately. He looked at Elijah for a long time, as though looking through him and perhaps, for the first time, seeing him clearly.
The hearing was far from over, and Elijah still had one move left.
Judge Tolbert called for a ten-minute recess, but almost no one left. Some people stepped into the hallway, but their attention remained fixed on the courtroom as though gravity held them there. Even the janitor, who usually cleaned the benches around lunchtime, leaned on his broom and stayed near the door.
Elijah sat alone at the defense table, calmly sorting papers. There was no attorney hovering nearby and no legal team whispering in his ear, only a seventeen-year-old boy, a stack of folders, and a tired briefcase with a broken latch.
Across the room, Lindholm leaned toward Officer Haskins and whispered sharply. Haskins did not look up. He stared straight ahead like someone who had been caught playing with matches and had burned more than he intended.
Judge Tolbert remained behind the bench, writing something with slow, careful strokes. He looked older now, or perhaps merely exposed, like a man watching a story he had told himself begin to fall apart.