The rain outside the State Superior Court didn’t just fall; it battered the city. It hammered against the gray, reinforced windows of Courtroom 4B as if trying to wash away the sins accumulated inside. The atmosphere within the mahogany-paneled room was heavy, smelling of damp wool, floor wax, and the stale, metallic scent of despair.
On the defendant’s side sat Darius Moore. He was a man built of hard work—broad shoulders from lifting engines, hands permanently stained with the grease of a thousand transmission fluids, and a face that usually held a quick smile. But today, he was a statue of misery. He sat hunched in a suit that was two sizes too small, purchased at a thrift store the day before his arraignment.
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