“Overruled, Mr. Carroway,” Judge Harlan snapped, holding up a hand.

He leaned forward over the high bench, his eyes on my son, his tone softening. “You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to, Nolan. But if you have something to tell me, I’m listening.”

Nolan took a deep, shaky breath. He pointed a small, trembling finger at the photograph on the easel — the image of him looking dirty and abandoned.

“That picture is a lie,” he said. His voice was high and thin, but it didn’t break.

Grant shifted in his expensive suit. “Nolan, buddy, don’t do this…”

“Let the boy speak, Mr. Bellamy,” the judge warned, his voice turning to gravel.