Chapter 3 - Hands On The Table
The walk to the counsel table felt longer than it was. Maybe six steps. My shoes didn't make much sound on that courtroom floor, but I heard every one of them. My hands were still clasped in front of me from standing center, and I could feel the metal of that handcuff bracelet cold against my wrist.
I didn't look back at the gallery. I didn't look at the judge yet, either. I kept my eyes on the table. Dark wood, scratched at the edges from years of files and elbows and cuffs. Two microphones stood up from it, angled toward where I was supposed to stand. The attorney's briefcase was still open at the far end, papers stacked neat. He'd left enough room for me, but not much.
Behind that table, the officer shifted his weight. I heard his belt creak. That was the first sound besides my breathing.
When I got there, I stopped and set my feet. My heart was hammering so hard I was sure the mic would pick it up. I told myself not to rush it. If I rushed, I'd look scared. If I froze, I'd look lost. I needed to look like I belonged at that table, even with my hands shaking.
I spread my arms wide.
It wasn't planned like some big movie move. It was just the only way to claim the space. My left hand hovered over the attorney's side of the table, my right over the empty side, palms down. For a second I just held there, letting the court see me standing behind that counsel table in my navy suit, the gray henley tight at my throat. Let them see the fade, the suit that was a little too warm under those lights. Let them get past the picture they'd already made.
Then I leaned forward and put my hands on the table.
The wood was solid under my palms. Cool at first, then warm. I pressed down until I could feel the grain. That steadied me more than anything. I dropped my shoulders, breathed once through my nose, and looked up at the bench.
The judge was watching me. He wasn't laughing now. His mouth was a flat line, his eyes fixed. That stern silence sat heavy over the bench, over the seal behind him. He didn't lean back. He didn't wave me off. He just held still, waiting to see if I'd fall apart.
I felt the attorney turn in my peripheral vision. He was seated, half-turned toward me now, his tie pulled straight, his hands folded. He wasn't trying to stop me in that moment. He was just watching, the way you watch something you didn't expect to happen.
The officer shifted again behind us. A small step, boots adjusting. Not toward me, not away. Just that restless shift of a man standing too long.
I tightened my grip on the table edge. The microphone was right in front of my mouth. I could see the little red light on it. I knew once I spoke into it, there was no taking it back. No lawyer to blame. No confusion about who said what. It would be me, on the record.
I looked straight at the judge.
"Then let me show this court what the evidence actually says."
My voice came out louder than I expected in that room. It hit the mic and carried. I didn't shout it. I said it emphatic, steady, the way I'd practiced saying it in my head a hundred times on the way there. I kept my hands on the table the whole time. I didn't lift them. I didn't gesture. I needed him to see I wasn't going anywhere.
The words hung there. I could hear the air system humming above us. I could hear someone in the gallery shift in one of those wooden seats.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. The woman in scrubs. My mom in that light blue with the stethoscope tucked at her neck. She'd been holding those papers in her lap the whole time, clutching them tight. When I spoke, she lifted them just slightly, an inch off her lap, like her hands responded before she could stop them. White pages. I caught the dark print at the top even without looking straight at her. She didn't stand. She didn't speak. She just held them up a little higher, tears still sitting in her eyes.
May you like
I didn't look at her long. I couldn't. I turned back to the bench and waited.
The judge didn't answer right away. He kept that stern look on me, fingers resting on the bench in front of him. The flag stood still beside him. The courtroom waited for him to rule on what I'd just asked, and I kept my hands on that table, holding my spot until he did.
