I put the leather tube with my signed presidential commission into my structured leather briefcase and pulled the heavy brass zipper shut.

The mahogany doors of Courtroom 3B opened at three minutes to nine.

My father sat at the defense table in a tailored charcoal suit, adjusting his gold cufflinks while Vance shuffled papers beside him.

Beatrice sat in the front row of the gallery twisting a lace handkerchief between her fingers, her eyes darting to the heavy brass wall clock.

Beside her, Brenda straightened Chloe’s linen blazer and whispered something sharp into her daughter’s ear.

Prosecutor Sarah Jenkins sat at the state’s table, her legal pads stacked neatly beside a laptop for the audio and a clear plastic evidence bag.