The Noble Magistrate's Court was designed to make people feel small.
The ceilings were impossibly high, lost in shadow. The walls were paneled in dark, suffocating mahogany.
It smelled of beeswax and old grudges.
Marcus sat in the observation gallery. The wood bench was hard enough to bruise bone.
Beside him, Damien adjusted his collar. He looked bored, but his knee was bouncing.
"This is theater," Damien whispered. "Legally, they have nothing. They're hoping she cracks under the shame."
"She won't crack," Marcus said. He kept his eyes on the floor below.
The Ashwood family sat on the plaintiff's bench.
Richard's parents looked shrunken and gray.
They held hands, their eyes fixed on the floor. They looked like people who were just tired of hurting.
Behind them sat Richard's brother and sister.
They did not look tired. They looked hungry.
The brother checked his pocket watch every thirty seconds.
