Callaghan placed his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles turned white.
The courtroom fell into a hushed, confused silence.
“No,” Callaghan grunted.
He pushed.
Pain, hot and electric, shot up his spine. His atrophied muscles screamed. His knees trembled violently. He gritted his teeth, his face turning red with exertion.
Stand up, he told himself. For her.
Slowly, agonizingly, Judge Callaghan rose.
He wobbled. He gripped the heavy oak of the bench for support. But he locked his knees. He straightened his back.
He stood.
He towered over the bench now, a man of six feet, imposing and terrifying.
“This court,” Callaghan announced, his voice thundering from his full height, “will recess for exactly one hour. I will review every single piece of paper in this folder. I will review the prosecution’s entire file.”
He looked directly at Martin Harlow.
“And you,” Callaghan pointed a shaking finger at the shop owner. “You will not leave this building. Bailiff, if Mr. Harlow attempts to exit these doors, you are to detain him for contempt of court. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor!” the bailiff shouted, energized by the judge’s intensity.
“One hour,” Callaghan repeated.
He didn’t sit back down. He turned, gripping the bench, and shuffled toward his chambers on his own two feet.
The Verdict
Continue reading…
