His face is the color of brick dust. His voice fills every corner of the room, bouncing off wood paneling darkened by decades of heat and stale breath. The courthouse smells like old paper, cheap cologne, coffee gone bitter on a hot plate, and rain trapped in wool coats. There is a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead, more decorative than useful. There is a clock above the judge’s bench that clicks louder than a clock should. There are twelve people in the gallery, including my younger sister Ashley, who is folded into grief like she practiced it in a mirror before coming here.
And there is a sealed black envelope sitting inside my attorney’s briefcase.
My father does not know that yet.
He thinks this is his room.