“Your Honor, there is something even deeper that you must understand about this entire situation,” I added, stepping closer to the bench.

“Rebecca Foster was helping Clarence long before he ever carried a single grocery bag down our street.”

I carefully unfolded the wrinkled sheet of notebook paper that had rested inside my pocketbook for weeks.

“This is a handwritten letter that Rebecca carried over to Clarence during the coldest week of last January,” I said while showing the blue ink to the bench.

Rebecca recognized the rounded strokes of her own penmanship immediately, and she buried her face against her sleeping boy’s dark curls.