The little girl climbed onto it, her feet swinging above the polished wood, and reached for the microphone with both hands, adjusting it too forcefully so that it screeched, sharp and metallic, slicing through the room and killing every last whisper.
“I’m her lawyer,” the child said.
Her voice was clear, trembling only at the edges.
“My name is Ava Moore. I’m nine years old. And I represent my mother because no one else would.”
For a fraction of a second, the courtroom forgot how to breathe.
Then the laughter came — louder this time, more open, crueler in its confidence.
Victor Hale leaned back in his chair, folding his hands as if he were watching an amusing play staged for his benefit, and Richard Latham shook his head slowly, the way one might react to a tragic misunderstanding.
Judge Branham raised a hand for silence, his expression unreadable.
“Young lady,” he said carefully, “this is not appropriate. This is a court of law.”
Ava nodded once.
