Through the small glass window I can see them on their bench — and I can see the oldest boy, seven years old, sitting close beside his little sister, who is crying without much sound, both arms wrapped around a stuffed bear that has lost its head somewhere in the last three weeks.

And the boy is wiping her face with his own sleeve, gently, patiently, holding her hand like it is his job, his solemn and personal job, to keep her small world from coming apart.

He’s seven, and he’s already trying to be a father to her.

I know that boy.

I have been that boy.

That is the thing that finally undoes my composure, standing at that podium — not fear of losing the case, but recognition so total it’s almost vertigo.

I know precisely what is happening in that little boy’s chest right now, because it happened in mine.