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My family dragged me to court
The courthouse in Mansfield, Ohio, smelled of floor wax and that kind of silence that fills places where people’s fates are decided without their consent. It was a stark contrast to the storm brewing within me.
I sat down at the defendant’s table one Tuesday morning in May, wearing a navy blue jacket I had bought specifically for this moment. It was a symbol of professionalism, a far cry from the life I had lived for the past eight years, saving lives in places where most Americans would never dream of going.
