Elijah didn't smile, didn't move, just said, "Yes, Your Honor," and sat down.
From the back row, Isaiah, his older brother, watched in silence. His hands were cuffed, orange jumpsuit wrinkled at the collar, but his eyes—they held something quiet, something proud.
The clerk called the case: State of Georgia versus Isaiah Carrington.
The room reset. Andrea Lindholm stood, began laying out the charges: burglary, resisting arrest, and possession of stolen property. "A simple case," she said. Mr. Carrington was caught red-handed fleeing a home with electronics in his car; the arresting officer ID'd him on site. No mention of the lack of fingerprints. No mention of the alibi. No mention of the anonymous tip that had led to Isaiah being pulled over in the first place.
Tolbert nodded along. Everything seemed to move fast—too fast.
Then Elijah stood up calmly. "Your Honor, may I cross-examine the officer?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Tolbert's face. "You may."
The officer stepped up: Officer Paul Haskins, big guy, 45, with the build of a linebacker and a voice made for radio. He looked down at Elijah like he was a science experiment.
"State your name for the record," Elijah said.
"You serious?"
"Name, please."
A few people in the back tensed up. Elijah's tone wasn't rude, just different, like he wasn't asking—he was conducting.
"Haskins. Paul Haskins."
"And you said you saw my brother inside the vehicle with the stolen property?"
"Yeah. Flat-screen TV in the back seat, two laptops. I pulled him over after I got the tip."
"Right. This tip—did you log it?"
"No."
"You said he ran."
"He tried. I stopped him."
Elijah flipped open a file. "Then how do you explain this?"
He held up a photo: Isaiah, face down, handcuffed, kneeling, timestamped five minutes before the traffic stop was officially recorded.