PART 2
For a few seconds, the only sound in the courtroom was the faint buzz of the overhead lights.
Then Richard Latham laughed again.
Not loudly this time. Not with the rest of the room. His laugh was smaller, sharper, tucked behind his teeth like he wanted the judge to think he was being polite.
“Your Honor,” he said, smoothing one hand down the front of his tailored jacket, “I appreciate the plaintiff’s… creativity. But surely we are not going to entertain this.”
My mother’s fingers tightened around the edge of our table.
