Tolbert's eyes narrowed. His smirk was gone. Now he was thinking.
The courtroom door creaked open as someone slipped in late. It was Mr. Klein, the town's unofficial court watcher—retired, nosy, always carrying a notepad. He whispered to someone in the back, "What's going on?"
"Some kid is defending his brother," the woman replied. "He's killing it."
Outside the courthouse earlier that morning, Elijah had stood by the cracked sidewalk with his brother's lawyer—well, former lawyer—just a few feet away from the rusted bike rack. That man, Elijah remembered his name was Dwayne Carter, had looked down at him like he was trying to solve a math problem he hadn't studied for.
"You can't do this, kid," Carter had said. "Court's not some school project."
"I know," Elijah said calmly. "But you don't believe my brother, and I do."
"Belief doesn't win trials."
"No, but the truth might."
Carter had shaken his head, muttered something about watching too many movies, and walked off.
Now, in that courtroom, Elijah made good on every hour he'd spent studying on his own: late nights at the Camilla Public Library, listening to recorded lectures on his cracked iPhone, watching old trials on YouTube, reading from the stack of used law books he bought for five dollars each at a secondhand shop in Albany. He didn't have a degree, but he had facts. He didn't have courtroom experience, but he had instinct. And right now, he had momentum.
Judge Tolbert cleared his throat. "Let me get this straight: the arresting officer's timeline is off, the supposed victim denies anything was stolen, and there's no proof of forced entry."
"Yes, sir."
"And you, Mr. Carrington—you dug this up on your own?"
Elijah looked over at his brother, then back at the judge. "I had to. No one else was doing it."
A heavy pause. The judge leaned back again. This time, no smirk—just a crease between his eyebrows. "You said you're 17?"
"Yes."
Tolbert sighed through his nose, almost like he didn't want to say what he said next. "Well, so far, you're more prepared than half the licensed lawyers who stand in front of me."
Gasps, a few murmurs. Andrea Lindholm crossed her arms; she wasn't smiling.
Elijah kept his expression flat, but inside his heart hammered. Not from nerves—from focus. Every moment counted. Every word mattered. And he wasn't about to slow down now.
He stepped back to the table, slid the folders into a clean pile, and whispered something only Isaiah could hear: "You all right?"
Isaiah nodded. "You're doing better than I ever imagined."