Chapter 1 - The Laugh Before My Name
I stood in profile at the center of that wood-paneled courtroom with my hands clasped in front of me, trying to hold still while the whole room was already moving without me. The warm lights made the bench shine and the seal look heavier than it should have. The judge was laughing on the bench, his shoulders shaking under that black robe, and the sound filled up the gallery seats behind me. My suit felt too clean for what he was making me out to be. Dark navy over a gray henley, my cuffs pulled straight, the metal bracelet cold on my wrist. I wasn't Perry Mason. I was just a kid from the county trying not to shake.
He was at his peak then, bald head tipped back, hand loose on the gavel he didn't need to use because the laughter was doing the work for him. The attorney at the counsel table didn't stop it. The officer behind him stood with his arms locked, uniform pressed, eyes straight ahead like this was normal. Across the aisle I caught one tangible thing I could hold onto, a woman in light blue scrubs with a stethoscope tucked at her neck, both hands gripped tight around white papers. I couldn't read them yet from where I stood, only the way her fingers pressed into the edges like letting go would cost her something.
My name is Marcus, I was twenty and standing alone in that courtroom, and that morning I had decided I would speak for myself.
The time on the wall clock said just past nine, but it felt later because the air was already thick. I heard his chair creak as he leaned forward on the bench, the microphones catching his breath. I watched his smile settle, not fade exactly, but sharpen into something he meant. He looked out at the gallery, not at me, and let the line land. "Another street thug thinks he's Perry Mason." The attorney gave a short laugh through his nose. Someone in the back seats coughed into it. The flag behind the bench didn't move.
I kept my profile to him for another second. I counted the grain in the wood panel in front of me, one, two, three lines, and listened to my own breathing slow down. Then I turned my head just enough to face the bench. I saw the microphones lined up on the wood, the seal centered, the judge's hands folded now like he was waiting to swat whatever I said next. Behind me the woman in scrubs shifted, paper rustling soft against her palms, and I caught her eyes, tearful and locked on me. I didn't nod. I didn't look away fast either. I felt the weight of the room turn.
I knew what the file said about me was a lie.
I wasn't that.
May you like
I looked at the judge and kept my voice steady. "I'm representing myself, Yana." My right hand lifted a little as I said it, palm in, restrained, then dropped back to my clasp. The attorney turned in his chair. The officer's jaw moved but he didn't speak. The woman held those papers tighter to her chest and pressed her lips together.
The change was quick. The judge's laugh cut off and his face went stern, his eyes narrowing down at me over the bench. The gallery went quiet in a wave, chairs settling, no one coughing now. He leaned closer to the microphone, his robe brushing the wood, and I felt the whole courtroom hold its air before whatever came next.
