The heavy mahogany gate separating the spectator gallery from the well of Courtroom 4-B clicked shut behind me, the sound dry and definitive against the high limestone walls.
Behind the railing, my father-in-law, Arthur Hale, chuckled aloud.
He leaned back against the polished oak pew, adjusting the platinum signet ring on his pinky finger, not bothering to lower his voice.
“Look at her, Vivian,” Arthur murmured, loud enough to drift over the court reporter’s machine.
“No counsel.
No firm behind her.
She probably thinks a library card and Google make her an advocate.
She couldn’t even afford a junior associate from a strip mall.”
Vivian Hale covered her mouth with a delicate, manicured hand, but I still heard the quiet laugh escape.
Her four-carat diamond bracelet sparkled under the harsh fluorescent fixtures as she tilted her head toward Arthur, whispering something that made his thin, patrician lips stretch into a satisfied grin.
They thought I was helpless.
