“No,” Pike said, irritation sharpening his tone. “Stand properly.”
There it was — that word. Properly. She shifted her weight, trying to straighten fully. The prosthetic socket had been inflamed all week. She’d adjusted it before coming in, but courthouse floors were slick, and her balance wasn’t perfect.
“I’m standing to the best of my ability,” she said, still calm, though a flush crept up her neck.
The judge finally looked at her. “Ms. Ellison, this court will not tolerate defiance. Stand.”
And something in that word wasn’t about posture anymore. She tried. She really did. She pulled her shoulders back, redistributed her weight, and in that small, stubborn act of compliance, the rubber tip of her cane slipped. The sound wasn’t dramatic. It was soft — a scrape, a gasp, then the dull impact of body against tile.
Her bag tipped over beside her. And from it slid a small velvet case that popped open on impact. The medal skidded across the floor. Bronze. Ribboned. Catching fluorescent light. The bailiff stared first. Then the prosecutor. Then a law student in the back row whispered, “Is that a Bronze Star?”
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