"Maya, honey, jail isn't a place for—"
"Take me to him now." The steel in her voice made her sound older than thirteen.
That evening, Maya sat across from her father in the visiting room, separated by scratched plexiglass. Marcus tried to smile, but she could see the fear in his eyes.
"Baby girl, I didn't do this."
"I know, Daddy." She placed her small hand against the glass. "Tell me everything. Every detail."
"Maya, you don't need to worry about—"
"I've been reading those law books for three years, Daddy. While you cleaned, I studied. I know about discovery, evidence chains, reasonable doubt. I know more than that public defender they assigned you, who hasn't even returned your calls. So tell me everything."
Marcus stared at his daughter, seeing her clearly for perhaps the first time. "When did you grow up so fast?"
"The moment they put handcuffs on my hero," she said quietly. "Now talk. We're going to prove your innocence."
As visiting hours ended, Maya walked out with a notebook full of details and a determination that would soon shock everyone who'd already written off Marcus Thompson as just another statistic. They had no idea what was coming.
The courthouse steps seemed to stretch endlessly as Maya climbed them three days later, her best dress slightly too small, her father's case file clutched in a folder made from cardboard and hope. The preliminary hearing was set for 9:00 a.m., and she'd been preparing since dawn.
Inside, the courtroom smelled of old wood and disappointment. Maya took a seat in the gallery, watching as defendants shuffled through like products on an assembly line of justice. Each one got maybe five minutes before their fate was decided by people who'd already forgotten their names.
"Case number 4851, State versus Marcus Thompson," the bailiff announced.
Maya's father entered in an orange jumpsuit that made him look guilty before anyone said a word. His court-appointed lawyer, Mr. Brewster, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. He'd met with Marcus exactly once, for ten minutes.
Judge Eleanor Whitmore presided with the kind of stern authority that came from old money and older prejudices. Maya had researched her thoroughly: Harvard Law, third-generation judge, and aunt to Richard Whitmore III. The conflict of interest was so obvious it hurt, but nobody seemed to care.