“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no. Jamal, tell them.”
Jamal stood only because the bailiff pulled him up.
His gold watch flashed under the courtroom lights.
For months, he had worn it like proof he was better than everyone.
Now it looked like evidence.
The cuffs snapped around his wrists.
Brittany lunged toward the partition.
A second bailiff blocked her.
“Step back, ma’am.”
“He can’t go to jail,” she screamed. “We have a baby coming. We need the house.”
Not my husband.
Not he is innocent.
Not this is wrong.
We need the house.
Even then, she could not hide what mattered.
Judge Whitman stared at her with open disgust.
“Mrs. Price, sit down before you join him.”
She sat.
Jamal was led toward the side door.
For one second, he looked at me.
The arrogance was gone.
What remained was hatred.
Pure.
Focused.
Personal.
“You think this is over?” he whispered as the bailiff pulled him past our table.
