The judge laughed when he saw the teen walk in wearing his daddy's suit, but he wasn't ready for what happened next.
Nobody expected the kid in the oversized navy suit to speak. He walked through the double doors of the Miller County Courthouse in Camilla, Georgia like he'd done it before. Only the jacket didn't quite fit. The sleeves ran long, hiding most of his hands. His tie was crooked. The briefcase he carried was scuffed, like it had been passed down through a few lifetimes. But the way Elijah Carrington moved—calm, straight-backed, eyes locked forward—looked like he was there for business.
Inside the courtroom, the crowd turned; whispers buzzed. Who was this boy? A clerk's little cousin? Somebody's assistant? A kid who wandered in off the street?
Judge Raymond Tolbert looked up from his bench. His reading glasses sat low on his nose. He didn't say anything at first, just smirked. It wasn't subtle—one of those sideways grins that says everything without saying a word, the kind of smile that makes your stomach turn.
Elijah didn't flinch. He walked straight toward the defense table, opened the briefcase, and pulled out three neatly stacked file folders and a worn copy of the Georgia Code. He placed them carefully, like someone lining up tools before getting to work.
Tolbert finally spoke. "You lost, son?"
"No, sir," Elijah said, voice steady. "I am here representing my brother, Isaiah Carrington."
A pause fell so heavy, even the courtroom clock seemed to hold its breath. The bailiff blinked. The prosecutor, Andrea Lindholm, looked up from her notes with a raised eyebrow. Someone in the third row stifled 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 allowances to act as his representative."
Tolbert's smirk widened. "Son, this isn't a mock trial. This is a felony case."
"I understand."
"You're 17."
"Yes, sir."
"You have no license, no formal legal training."
"No, sir." Elijah glanced briefly at the gallery, then back at the judge. "But I've studied the law for two years, and I've read everything related to my brother's case twice."
The courtroom shifted again. No more chuckles. Just silence now—tight, uncomfortable silence.
Tolbert exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Well, we'll see how long that confidence holds." He turned to the prosecutor. "Ms. Lindholm?"
She looked unsure. "If the paperwork's in order, it's legal. Strange, but legal."
The judge shook his head and looked down at his docket. "This is a preliminary hearing. We're here to decide whether there's enough to proceed to trial. If your brother really wants you to speak on his behalf, I'm not stopping you."