He was thin to the point of fragility, his clothes stained and hanging off him, his shoulders collapsed inward as if life had been pressing down on him for decades. He kept his head lowered while deputies brought him forward in handcuffs.
The charge was pathetic in the saddest possible way.
He had stolen medicine from a Walgreens.
Eighty-nine dollars’ worth.
The prosecutor read it out with practiced indifference, as if he were reciting the weather.
“Your Honor, the defendant was observed on security camera taking over-the-counter medication without payment. The evidence is clear. The state requests sentencing.”
James didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He didn’t claim innocence. He just gave one slow nod, like a man too tired to fight for dignity he no longer expected anyone to give him.
Judge Robinson adjusted his glasses and said, “Mr. Patterson, step forward.”
James shuffled toward the stand. I moved automatically, the way I had done thousands of times before. My role was simple: remove the cuffs once the defendant stood before the bench.
“I’m going to take these off,” I told him in the same low professional tone I always used.
