Judge Norwood stared at her. Something softened in his face, but not pity; it was recognition. He took a deep breath, then sat back.
"All right, Ammani. Thank you. That was..." He glanced at his notes, then back at her. "...very helpful."
She nodded. "I'm not done."
He blinked. "You're not?"
"No, sir. I'd like to address one of the affidavits in this case. It includes false information."
The room stirred again. Ror straightened in his seat.
"Which affidavit?" the judge asked.
Ammani reached into her tote again, pulled out a photocopy. "This one filed by Celeste Boon. She said she had a two-bedroom apartment, but this lease form says she lives in a one-bedroom unit, which means she would have had to convert the living room into a bedroom."
Celeste's face flushed. "That was a typo."
"It's not just that," Ammani cut in. "The lease is dated two weeks after she filed the affidavit."
Norwood narrowed his eyes. "Is this document real?"
"Yes, sir. I got it from the building manager. He let me see it because I told him I was verifying housing stability for court. I used my school ID."
The courtroom wasn't whispering anymore. Everyone was just watching, listening. But Ammani wasn't finished dismantling the lies yet; she was just getting started.
For a moment, the courtroom went quiet in a way that wasn't awkward, but necessary—like everyone needed a breath they'd forgotten to take. Ammani sat still, the lease still in her hand: not smug, not proud, just certain. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her voice hadn't. That mattered more.
Celeste Boon sat back in her chair, arms crossed tight. Her eyes darted toward her attorney, who now looked visibly uncomfortable. He whispered something again. This time, she nodded, but just barely.