He walked back into the courtroom, sat down, picked up his pen, and added two new questions to his list.
The bailiff called the room to order. People settled. The judge returned. The technician confirmed the footage was ready.
Whitmore looked at Isaac. "Mr. Ingram, you may proceed."
Isaac stood, but he didn't ask for the footage, not yet. Instead, he looked directly at the prosecution's table, then at the gallery, then at the judge.
"Your Honor, before we review the footage, I'd like to call Bradley Carson to the stand."
The courtroom went still. Sullivan's head snapped up. "Objection! Mr. Carson is a prosecution witness. The defense cannot—"
"Mr. Carson was listed on the prosecution's own witness roster," Isaac said calmly. "Under Greenfield procedural rules, either party may call a listed witness during evidentiary proceedings. I'm exercising that right."
Whitmore checked the roster, then looked at Sullivan. "The witness is listed. Objection overruled. Mr. Carson, please take the stand."
Every head in the gallery turned toward the back of the courtroom. Carson sat in the third row. His face was white; his hands gripped the bench in front of him like he was holding onto the edge of a cliff. He stood slowly and walked to the front, each step heavier than the last.
The bailiff held out a Bible. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
Carson's eyes darted to Sullivan. Sullivan stared straight ahead: no rescue, no signal, nothing.
"I do," Carson said. His voice broke on the second word.
Isaac picked up his legal pad, stepped out from behind the defense table, and for the first time in the entire proceeding, he smiled. Not a happy smile, not a nervous smile—the smile of someone who already knows how this ends.
Isaac stood six feet from the witness stand, legal pad in his left hand, pen in his right. No podium, no table between them, just open floor and silence.
He started simple. "Mr. Carson, how long have you worked at Greenfield County Courthouse?"