“Your Honor,” she said, her voice calm but edged with triumph, “the defense has exhausted all reasonable accommodations. We request the court to proceed immediately.”
Lucas tried to speak, but the judge raised a hand before he could form a sentence. “Mr Whitman,” the judge said firmly, “you have five minutes to present legal representation. After that, we move forward.”
A wave of whispers rolled through the benches. Then, from the back of the courtroom, a voice broke the tension. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, yet strong enough to cut through the noise.
“I can speak for him.”
Laughter erupted, sharp and dismissive, echoing against the high ceiling. Heads turned toward the source of the voice. A young woman stood near the rear doors, dressed in a modest household uniform, her posture straight despite the sudden attention. Her name was Emilia Navarro, and until that moment, no one in the room had considered her anything more than part of the background.
Penelope Cross let out a short laugh. “This is a courtroom, not a spectacle,” she said. “Sit down.”