Chapter 4 - Two Minutes and Nothing More
I didn't move my hands off the counsel table. The wood was cool under my palms, solid in a way that steadied me. The microphones in front of me picked up my breath when I leaned in too close, so I eased back half an inch and waited.
Judge Yana looked down at me from the bench. The laugh was gone from his face now. What was left was something tighter, the kind of patience judges wear when they want the record to show they gave you a chance.
"You want to show this court what the evidence actually says," he said. He repeated my words slowly, like he was testing their weight. "Fine. I'll give you five minutes. Not a second for speeches. If you waste this court's time, I will end it."
Behind me, the courtroom shifted. Someone coughed in the gallery. Paper rustled at the counsel table where the attorney sat. I heard the click of his pen.
"Yes, sir," I said. "Five minutes. I understand."
I kept it short on purpose. I didn't argue the time. I didn't ask for ten. I'd watched enough hearings from the holding area video feed to know that fighting the clock only made a judge hold it tighter. Accept the condition, use the condition. That was the only move I had.
The judge nodded once, then glanced at the court reporter. "Note the defendant is proceeding pro se for this limited purpose. Time starts when he's ready."
That word, limited, hung there. It was a trap and he knew I knew it. Five minutes wasn't enough to tell a whole story. It was enough to stumble, enough to give him a reason to say he'd listened and then move straight to sentencing. My throat felt dry, but I didn't reach for the water pitcher on the table. I didn't want any extra movement on the record.
I looked to my right. The attorney had pulled a yellow legal pad closer and uncapped his pen. He wasn't looking at me like I was a joke anymore. His eyes were on my hands, then on the table, like he was trying to figure out what I planned to put on it. He started writing when I turned, quick small notes in the margin. I couldn't read them upside down, just the motion of his hand moving fast.
The officer hadn't moved. He stood behind the counsel table with his arms at his sides, shoulders squared, eyes forward. The stillness felt deliberate. I'd learned that already in that room — some people talk to control it, some people stand still to control it.
I let a beat pass. The warm air in the courtroom smelled faintly of old wood and cleaning spray. The flag beside the bench barely moved. Somewhere behind me I heard fabric shift — the woman in scrubs adjusting the papers in her lap.
That sound pulled my focus. I couldn't start my five minutes without doing this part first.
"Sir," I said to the judge, keeping my voice even, "before my time starts, I'd ask the court to acknowledge the woman present in the gallery holding papers for me."
The judge frowned. "This isn't roll call."
"I know," I said. "I just want the record to reflect she's here and she's holding documents I intend to refer to. I'm not asking to admit anything yet."
I didn't look back when I said it. I didn't want to put her on the spot. But I felt the change in the room, heads turning slightly toward the gallery. I heard the soft crinkle of paper as she held them a little tighter against her chest.
The judge followed the sound with his eyes. For a moment his expression didn't change. Then he gave a short tilt of his head toward the gallery.
"The court notes a woman in scrubs is present in the gallery holding papers," he said, his tone flat. "No exhibit has been admitted. Your five minutes stands."
It wasn't warmth. It wasn't permission for anything more. But it was on the record now. She wasn't just a face in the back row anymore. She was present, with papers, tied to what I was about to say.
"Thank you," I said.
The attorney glanced up from his notes at that exchange, then back down and wrote another line. The officer blinked once but didn't shift his stance.
The judge reached for the small clock on the bench and turned it slightly so he could see it. "Are you ready, Mr. Pro Se?"
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My bracelet caught the light when I straightened my jacket. Under the navy suit, the gray henley stuck to my back with sweat. I pressed my palms flat once more on the table, then lifted them.
"I'm ready," I said.
