"I know. I recognized the tie." Isaiah's voice cracked. "He'd have lost his mind."

"He'd have said it was too big."

Across the aisle, at the prosecution's table, a tall woman in a navy pantsuit had stopped shuffling her papers. Andrea Lindholm, assistant district attorney, forty-one years old, with eleven years in the county and a reputation as a fair if unspectacular lawyer. She watched Elijah for several seconds, her expression somewhere between amusement and unease.

Then the side door opened, and the bailiff's voice rang out across the room.

"All rise! The Honorable Raymond Tolbert presiding."

The gallery stood in a rustle of fabric and shuffling shoes. Elijah rose with it, and felt his knees go briefly weak.

The judge entered, a lean man of sixty-three with silver hair and sharp, hooded eyes, his black robe trailing behind him. He did not look at anyone. He moved to the bench, settled into the high leather chair, and opened a file with the weary precision of a man who had done this ten thousand times.

"Be seated."

Everyone sat. Elijah's heart hammered against his ribs.

Judge Tolbert glanced down at his docket. His gaze slid across the courtroom, over the prosecutor's table, over the defendant, and stopped.

Stopped on the boy in the enormous navy suit.

And the corner of his mouth began, very slowly, to curl.

Chapter 7: The Smirk

It was not a cruel smile. That was the strange thing. Judge Raymond Tolbert had spent thirty-one years on the bench, and the smirk he now wore was the product of long practice. It was the expression of a man who had seen everything, who had been fooled by none of it, and who was quietly, privately entertained.

"Well," he said, in a dry, unhurried voice. "This is a new one."

A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the gallery. Elijah did not flinch. He kept his hands folded on the table, the oversized cuffs of the jacket swallowing his knuckles.

"You lost, son?"

Elijah stood. The chair scraped. In the silence, the sound was very loud.

"No, sir," he said. His voice came out steady, a half-tone lower than he expected. "I am here representing my brother, Isaiah Carrington."

The silence that followed was so total that even the old wall clock seemed to hold its breath. The bailiff blinked. Andrea Lindholm raised one eyebrow. In the third row, somebody coughed to cover a laugh and failed.

Tolbert leaned back in his chair. "Representing. You mean observing."

"No, sir. Representing."

Elijah reached into the folder and lifted out a single sheet of paper, a copy of the order the court itself had signed. He held it up, steady, so that the whole room could see the stamp. "Isaiah filed a pro se motion requesting self-representation. He then designated me, under Georgia's lay representation allowances, to act as his representative at this hearing. The court approved the designation on the seventh of this month. It's in the record, Your Honor."

Tolbert's smirk widened a fraction. "Son, this isn't a mock trial. This is a felony case."

"I understand."

"You're seventeen."

"Yes, sir."

"You have no license, no bar number, no formal legal training of any kind."

"No, sir." Elijah glanced briefly at the gallery, where a few faces had stopped smiling, then returned his eyes to the judge. "But I have studied the law for two years, and I have read everything related to my brother's case twice."

Someone in the back let out a low whistle. The bailiff shifted her feet.

Tolbert exhaled slowly, as if he were deflating a small balloon. He removed his glasses again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well," he said. "We'll see how long that confidence holds."

He turned his gaze toward the prosecution table. "Ms. Lindholm. Any objection to this irregularity?"

Andrea Lindholm rose halfway, buttoning her jacket. She looked between the judge, the boy, and the shackled man beside him, and for a moment Elijah thought she might say something kind. Instead, she cleared her throat.

"If the paperwork is in order, Your Honor, it's legal. Strange, but legal."

"Strange is the right word." Tolbert shook his head and looked down at his docket. "This is a preliminary hearing. The only question before the court is whether there is probable cause to bind this matter over for trial. If your brother truly wants you speaking for him, Mr. Carrington, I will not stop you."

He paused, and the smirk returned, thin and patient.

"But I want the record to reflect that I strongly advise against it."

"Noted, Your Honor." Elijah met his eyes. "Thank you for the advice."

"Mm." Tolbert waved a hand. "Sit down. Try not to hurt yourself."

Another ripple of laughter, louder this time. Elijah sat. His cheeks burned, but his hands were still, and when he glanced sideways he saw Isaiah staring straight ahead with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining.

"Ignore them," Isaiah murmured. "They always laugh before they listen."

"I know," Elijah whispered back. "That's the only reason it's funny."

* * *

The clerk called the case in a thin, bored voice.

"State of Georgia versus Isaiah Marcus Carrington. Case number two-five-dash-one-seven-four-six. Preliminary hearing on charges of burglary in the first degree, obstruction of an officer, and theft by receiving stolen property."

"The State is ready, Your Honor," said Lindholm.

"The defense is ready, Your Honor," said Elijah.

The judge folded his hands. "Ms. Lindholm. Proceed."

Elijah picked up his pen and prepared to write. Under the table, he pressed the soles of his father's too-big shoes hard against the floor, and felt the old linoleum beneath them, solid as bedrock.

He was not afraid of the smirk. He had decided that long before this morning, in the dim back corner of the Camilla Public Library, with a stack of case files and a cup of cold tea.