For a fraction of a second, the courtroom forgot how to breathe. Then the laughter came — louder this time, more open, crueler in its confidence. Victor Hale leaned back in his chair, folding his hands as if he were watching an amusing play staged for his benefit, and Richard Latham shook his head slowly, the way one might react to a tragic misunderstanding.
Judge Branham raised a hand for silence, his expression unreadable. “Young lady,” he said carefully, “this is not appropriate. This is a court of law.” Ava nodded once. “That’s why I’m here.” And with that, she placed a battered cardboard folder — decorated with childish doodles and faded marker hearts — onto the polished defense table. Inside it was the beginning of the end.
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