Every seat in the gallery was taken. Clerks who had no business being there leaned against the back wall. Two local reporters sat in the second row with notebooks open. Even lawyers from other floors found excuses to stop by. They weren't there to see justice; they were there to see a boy fail.
Judge Nolan Whitmore entered from the side door. 62, silver hair, steel-rimmed glasses, thirty years on the bench. He was known for two things: his patience and his zero tolerance for wasted time. He sat down, adjusted his microphone, and scanned the room.
His eyes landed on Isaac standing at the defense table: yellow legal pad, manila folder, a pen tucked behind his ear. Wearing Elijah's suit jacket—charcoal gray, shoulders too wide, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs. His shirt was pressed, his shoes were clean, his face showed nothing.
Beside him sat Elijah in an orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front. He stared at the table; he hadn't looked up since they brought him in.
Across the aisle, Garrett Sullivan sat at the prosecution's table with a junior prosecutor named Trent Holloway. Sullivan's posture was loose, relaxed, like a man who'd already won and was just waiting for the paperwork.
Judge Whitmore spoke first. "I understand the defense has filed a motion for family representation under Section 14-22. Is the representative present?"
Isaac stood. "Yes, Your Honor. Isaac Ingram. I'm the defendant's son."
A murmur rippled through the gallery. Someone in the back row snorted.
Whitmore studied him. "Mr. Ingram, you understand that by filing this motion, you are assuming full responsibility for your father's legal defense. You will be held to the same standard as any licensed attorney in this room. No exceptions. No allowances."
"I understand, Your Honor."
"And you are eighteen years of age?"
"Yes, sir."
Whitmore glanced at the filing, read it again. His eyebrows moved just slightly. The motion was clean, properly formatted, every citation correct. He looked back at Isaac with something that wasn't quite respect—not yet—but wasn't dismissal, either.
"Motion granted. Proceed."
Sullivan leaned over to Holloway and whispered something. Holloway smirked.