By nine-thirty, every bench had filled with the quiet machinery of public judgment. A clerk with a tired face shuffled files from one stack to another. Two law students in the back row whispered to each other over a legal pad, eager in the way only people untouched by consequence could be eager. A middle-aged woman with a stiff collar sat with her arms folded, watching the room with the narrowed eyes of someone who had turned other people’s pain into a hobby. Near the front, a pair of reporters waited without seeming obvious about it, phones face-down in their laps, pens clipped neatly in their pockets. They were not there because the case mattered in any moral sense. They were there because the husband in this case had money, the woman he was rumored to be involved with had social visibility, and the city loved nothing more than a beautiful scandal that seemed simple enough to consume with morning coffee.