Chapter 8 - My Hands Stayed on the Table
I didn't step back from the counsel table. I could feel the wood under my palms, solid and cool through the skin, and I kept my weight leaned in just enough that the microphones picked up my breathing. The courtroom had gone tight and quiet behind me. My suit jacket pulled a little at the shoulders from the way I was standing, the gray henley underneath damp at the collar from the lights.
The attorney pushed his chair back. It scraped, loud in that quiet. He was middle-aged, dark suit, tie knotted too tight, and he'd been watching me since I walked up to the table. He stood halfway, one hand flat on his legal pad, the other lifted toward the judge like he was trying to flag down a moment.
"Your Honor," he said, "in the interest of time, if I may — I can step back in and take over questioning. This would move faster with counsel."
He didn't look at me when he said it. He looked at the bench, like I wasn't really a party to it. Like I was a delay to manage.
My jaw tightened before I could stop it. I glanced left at him, then back up at the judge. The older bald man in the black robe was watching us both now, his mouth set in a flat line after all that earlier laughing. The seal on the wood behind him caught the warm light. The flag stood still in the corner.
I knew what it would mean if I sat down. It would be easier. It would let the room exhale. For a second I wanted it.
I straightened up but I didn't lift my hands off the table. "No," I said. My voice came out quieter than I meant. I cleared my throat and made myself look at the attorney directly. "I appreciate that. But I'm representing myself."
The attorney finally turned to me. His eyes flicked down to the handcuff bracelet still on my wrist, then back to my face. "Son, you don't understand what you're risking," he said, low, like he was trying to be kind and keep it off the record. "There's procedure here. One mistake and you lose a door you can't reopen."
That was the moment I felt the officer move. He was standing behind the counsel table in his dark uniform, arms at his sides. When the attorney stood, the officer shifted his weight and took a half-step forward, boot soft on the carpet. I saw it from the corner of my eye. My shoulders locked. I didn't turn all the way, but I tracked him.
He stopped. He held his position a few feet back, hands clasped in front of him now, eyes on the judge waiting for a signal that didn't come. The room seemed to notice the small movement and then the stillness after it. The air conditioner hummed up in the vents.
The judge leaned forward over the bench, both hands on the edge. The microphones in front of him threw little shadows across the wood. "Mr. — you heard counsel," he said. His voice was stern, controlled. "You have the right to represent yourself. I will let you continue. But you will be held to the same rules. Do you understand what that means? If you fumble this, I will not save you from the consequences."
I swallowed. The henley stuck for a second at my throat. I nodded once, then remembered to use my voice because the record needed it.
"Yes, Yana — yes, Your Honor. I understand," I said. "I'm asking only for what the rules allow. To show what the evidence actually says."
The judge held my stare a beat longer. Then he gave a short nod toward the attorney. "Counsel will remain as standby. He does not speak unless I call on him. Proceed."
The attorney let out a breath through his nose and lowered himself back into his chair. He slid his legal pad a few inches away from me, like drawing a line without saying it. He clicked his pen once and set it down. He folded his hands. I could feel him there at my left elbow, sidelined but not gone, watching every word I reached for.
I looked down at the table to steady myself — the two microphones, the worn edge where a hundred hands had rested, the grain of the wood under the warm even lights. My hands were still there, fingers spread. I pressed down a little harder to stop the tremor I didn't want anyone to see.
Behind me somewhere in the gallery, I knew she was still sitting there. The woman in light blue scrubs with the stethoscope, holding those white papers with the Harvard University label tight against her chest. I didn't turn to check. I didn't need to. I kept my eyes on the bench.
May you like
"Thank you," I said to the judge. My voice steadied this time. "Then I'll keep going."
The officer eased back that half-step he'd taken, resettling into his post behind us. The attorney didn't move again. The table was mine.
