"Truth or lie?" Ammani asked. "You told the caseworker you could provide for me better than the Greers because you make more money."
Celeste blinked. "True," she said slowly. "That's a fact."
"Then why do the electric bills in your name show four late payments in the past six months?" Ammani asked.
The room gasped. Not dramatically, but just enough to feel it. Celeste's mouth opened, then closed. Ammani reached into the small tote bag beside her and pulled out a folded document.
"Public records. I looked them up last week at the library downtown. It's all there."
Ror stood up quickly. "Objection, Your Honor! This is completely inappropriate!"
"It's relevant," Norwood said, almost too quietly. "Sit down, Mr. Ror."
Ammani's voice didn't waver. She turned back to the judge. "Truth or lie: a child's voice should matter in decisions about their own life."
He looked at her long and hard. "Truth," he finally answered.
Ammani exhaled, her fingers finally relaxing in her lap. "Then I'd like to speak for real. Not about cookies, not games—just the truth."
The judge nodded once slowly. The game was over, but what came next would no longer be in the adults' control.
The court clerk scribbled something into her notepad. The stenographer's fingers didn't miss a beat, and Judge Norwood, now fully upright in his chair, motioned gently with his hand.
"You may speak, Miss Jefferson."
Ammani took a second before answering. Not out of fear; she was just thinking, lining things up. Not the way most kids might tell a story, wandering off into sidebars or pausing to check if someone was still listening. No, Ammani was surgical.
"I've lived in six homes in seven years," she began, her voice clear and calm. "Some of them were okay. One had a dog that liked to chew my socks. One smelled like onions and baby powder. One..." She paused. "...locked their fridge after 5:00 p.m."