The judge nodded to the prosecution. "Mr. Sullivan, your opening statement."
Sullivan stood the way he always stood: slow, deliberate, like the room owed him its attention. He buttoned his jacket, walked to the center of the floor, and began.
"Your Honor, this is a straightforward case. Elijah Ingram was employed as a janitor at this courthouse for eleven years. He had unrestricted access to every room in this building, including the IT department on the second floor. On the night of March 14th, he used that access to remove $15,000 worth of computer equipment. A trusted courthouse employee witnessed the theft. The evidence is clear. The defendant betrayed the trust of this institution." He paused, let the words hang, then added, almost casually, "The prosecution will be brief, because frankly, this case doesn't require much."
He sat down. The gallery nodded along like churchgoers hearing a sermon they already believed.
Whitmore turned to Isaac. "Mr. Ingram, your opening statement."
Isaac stood. He didn't walk to the center; he stayed behind the defense table, close to his father. He held his legal pad but didn't look at it.
The courtroom was silent. Not the respectful kind—the waiting kind, the kind that comes before someone falls.
Isaac spoke. "Your Honor, my father has worked in this building for eleven years. 5,500 days. He's mopped every floor, cleaned every restroom, and fixed things that weren't even in his job description. In all that time: not one complaint, not one warning, not one missing paper clip." He paused. "The prosecution says this is straightforward. I agree, but not for the reasons Mr. Sullivan thinks."
Sullivan's smile flickered.
"This case rests entirely on the testimony of one man: Bradley Carson. One witness. One statement. No physical evidence presented. No forensic report, no fingerprints, no inventory audit trail connecting my father to the missing equipment." Isaac looked at the judge. "Your Honor, I don't have a law degree. I don't have a suit that fits. But I have something the prosecution doesn't." He set his legal pad on the table. "The truth. And before this hearing ends, this court will know exactly where that truth has been hiding and who's been hiding it."
Silence. Not the laughing kind, not the waiting kind—the real kind, the kind where people forget to breathe. A woman in the gallery uncrossed her arms. A reporter stopped writing and just looked up. Even Holloway, Sullivan's junior, shifted in his seat.
Sullivan's face didn't change, but his hand moved to his tie. He straightened it the way a man does when he feels something tighten around his neck.
Whitmore wrote something on his notepad, then looked up. "The defense has also filed a subpoena for courthouse security footage from the night in question. Mr. Sullivan, I understand you have an objection."
Sullivan stood. "Your Honor, this is a fishing expedition. The defense—if we can even call it that—is a teenager requesting surveillance footage with no foundation and no relevance. This is a waste of the court's time."
Isaac didn't hesitate. "Your Honor, in State v. Caldwell, 2016, the appellate court ruled that in theft cases involving disputed eyewitness testimony, the defense has an absolute right to examine any available physical evidence, including surveillance records. The footage exists. It's stored on courthouse servers, and it covers the exact corridor where the alleged theft took place."