The charges listed were “Criminal Child Endangerment” and “Reckless Rescue Attempt.” If I lost, I was looking at five to ten years in prison.

I called the parents fifteen times, but each call went straight to voicemail. In a state of disbelief, I drove to their apartment building. The father, Mr. Peterson, opened the door. His face, once etched with gratitude, was now contorted in a mask of rage.

“You broke our baby!” he snarled, physically pushing me back. “Get away from us before we call the police!” He slammed the door in my face, the sound echoing the collapse of my world.

The next morning, I met with my assigned public defender, Mr. Ramsay. His office was a chaotic landscape of overflowing case files and half-empty coffee cups. He was juggling forty cases and barely had time to glance at mine.