Claire arrived to drive them. She wore a navy suit that hadn't been out of the closet in 20 years. It still fit. Her hair was pinned back. She had her mother's pearl earrings on, the ones she'd worn to her doctoral hooding ceremony.
Before they got in the car, she put both hands on Kendrick's shoulders. "Don't perform, baby. Don't try to be a lawyer. Just be true. The truth is the only thing they can't argue with, only sneer at." She paused. "Let them sneer."
Kendrick nodded. She kissed his forehead and held him for one second longer than necessary.
He picked up the briefcase. It was the same weight as it had been the night Claire had handed it to him. He'd gotten used to it.
The Ardmore County Courthouse had been built in 1908. White columns. A brass plaque by the door listed every judge who'd ever served; Julia Blackwood's name was the last one.
Bobby and Kendrick walked up the marble steps together—step by step, no rush, the way you walk when you can't be late and you also can't be early.
The lobby was full. Word had spread across the South Side overnight: The Jackson boy is going to argue. The 15-year-old. Some had come to watch. Some had come to pray. Some had just come to be there the way a community shows up for one of its own when it knows nothing else to do.
Marlene was there in a navy church dress, gripping a small handkerchief. Devon Marsh was there too, in the back, in a suit, briefcase in hand like a man who had decided something. He nodded once at Kendrick when their eyes met.
And Judge Julia Blackwood was crossing the lobby, robe unzipped, talking to her bailiff, when she stopped and saw Kendrick. She looked him up and down—a slow look, a deliberate one.
That's when she said it:
"This isn't a daycare, boy. Take your raggedy little self and your trash bin briefcase out of my courthouse before I have the bailiff drag you out."
The lobby went still. Forty people heard it. Most of the white faces laughed. The Black faces did not.
Kendrick stood his ground. "Your Honor, I'll leave when you answer one question."
Blackwood's eyes narrowed. She glanced at the bailiff, considered, and then she gave a smile that wasn't a smile. "You want to play lawyer, son? Fine. Courtroom B, 20 minutes. I'll give you 10 of them before I have you removed."
She turned and walked away.