just breaking over the horizon as they stepped outside. News vans had already gathered at the end of their street, cameras tracking their movement. Maya stood straighter, remembering her mother's words about courage.
They walked to the car together, neither speaking, but drawing strength from each other's presence. As Judge Kingsley turned the key in the ignition, Maya touched the USB drive in her pocket containing their evidence. Everything they needed was ready. The courthouse loomed ahead as they drove downtown, its stone facade glowing in the morning light. More reporters waited on the steps along with clusters of supporters and protesters.
Maya spotted Evans grandfather in his old sheriff's uniform holding court with local media. Judge Kingsley parked in her reserved space, turned off the engine, and faced her daughter. Ready? Maya nodded, gripping the briefcase handle. Together, they stepped out into the cool morning air and began walking toward the courthouse steps, their footsteps perfectly in sync.
The historic courthouse's main chamber was packed well beyond capacity with people squeezed shouldertosh shoulder on the wooden benches. Television cameras lined the back wall, their red lights blinking steadily. The morning sun streamed through tall windows, catching dust moes in golden beams. Maya sat straight back beside her mother, watching uniformed officers fill the left side of the room in a show of solidarity with Ray Lorn. On their right, she recognized students, teachers, and community members, some supportive, others hostile.
The tension was thick enough to taste. Ray Lorn sat at the defendant's table, jaw clenched, in his pressed dress uniform. His attorney shuffled papers, importantly, whispering in his ear.