“Excuse me,” she said abruptly. “We will take a brief recess.”
The room murmured. My attorney blinked, confused. I just stood there, unsure whether I had said something wrong or not enough.
A bailiff approached, gesturing for me to follow. Instead of leading me to a holding area, he guided me down a quieter hallway and into the judge’s chambers. Ethan followed, his confusion now fully visible.
Judge Whitmore entered a moment later, closing the door behind her. She didn’t sit immediately. Instead, she walked to a cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled out a thin folder along with a photograph.
She set the photo on the desk between us.
A young Marine stared back at me, caught mid-laugh, sunlight cutting across his face. His arm was bandaged, sling visible, but his expression was… alive. The kind of alive you only see in people who haven’t yet learned how fragile that feeling is.
“That’s my brother,” she said quietly. “Andrew Whitmore.”
Something in my chest tightened.
She slid the photo a little closer to me. “He wrote letters home during his deployment. Not often, but when he did, he mentioned someone. Repeatedly. A corporal who…” She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “Who carried him out after an IED hit their convoy.”
The room felt smaller suddenly.
