“Federal Officer?” Brenda scoffed, whispering loud enough for the room to hear. “Who? Sophia? The girl who can’t even roast a turkey?”
“Defendant will be silent!” The judge slammed his gavel. He turned to the prosecutor. “Is the victim present?”
“Yes, Your Honor. She is in chambers.”
The heavy oak door behind the bench—the door reserved exclusively for those who hold the scales of justice—slowly opened.
I stepped out.
