Callaghan stared at the papers. He looked at Darius, who was weeping silently, his face buried in his hands. He looked at Harlow, who was now texting furiously on his phone, trying to plan an escape.
And then he looked at his own legs.
For five years, Raymond Callaghan had sat. He sat because it hurt to stand. He sat because standing reminded him of the accident—the crunch of metal, the smell of gasoline, the realization that he would never dance with Martha again. He sat because he felt broken, and broken things belong in chairs.
But this girl. This seven-year-old girl had walked into a room of giants and slayed them with a piece of graph paper. She had walked through rain and fear and bureaucracy because she loved her father.
She had said: Release him, and I’ll release you.
He realized now what she meant. She wasn’t talking about a physical jail. She was talking about the prison of apathy. The prison of just “getting through the day.” She was offering him a chance to be a judge again. Not a bureaucrat. A guardian of the truth.
Justice required presence. Justice required standing up.
Callaghan placed his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles turned white.
The courtroom fell into a hushed, confused silence.
“Your Honor?” the bailiff asked, stepping forward. “Do you need assistance?”
“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.
The courtroom gasped—a collective intake of breath that sucked the air out of the room. This wasn’t just a physical act; it was a resurrection. The “Iron Gavel” wasn’t just a brain in a chair anymore. He was a force of nature.
“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
See more on the next page
Advertisement
