Two weeks after the committee vote, Emma sat in a federal courtroom watching David Morrison's trial begin. She'd debated whether to attend—Alexander thought it would be too stressful, Maya thought it might look vindictive—but Emma needed to see this through. Needed to watch Morrison face consequences for what he'd done.
The courtroom was smaller than she'd expected. Wood paneling, fluorescent lighting, uncomfortable benches that reminded her of church pews from childhood. Morrison sat at the defense table in an expensive suit, looking nothing like the threatening voice on that late-night phone call. He looked ordinary. Middle-aged, balding slightly, the kind of man you'd pass on the street without noticing.
That was the strange part about dangerous men, Emma had learned. They looked normal. Acted normal in public. Saved their cruelty for private moments, for phone calls made at 2 AM, for people they thought were powerless to fight back.
