“She has no standing here,” Sarah whispered, her thumb hammering the glass of her phone again.

“Not after what Evans signed.”

The heavy courtroom door groaned on its hinges as the uniformed bailiff stepped into the hall and called my name.

We filed into Room 502, where the oak benches smelled of lemon oil and damp wool.

The court reporter adjusted her paper feed with a sharp ratcheting click.

Judge Vance sat behind a raised bench beneath the state seal, his gray hair cropped close.

He spread three separate files across his leather blotter and adjusted his reading glasses before looking down at the defense table.