“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you understand this is not a school debate club.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
A few people snickered behind me. I ignored them because my mother had once told me that when people laughed at you for standing up, the laughter was usually meant to make you sit down.
Judge Warren folded his hands. “Then what exactly are you asking this court to allow?”
I stood on the chair because if I sat down, no one would see me over the table.
“I’m not asking to pretend to be an attorney,” I said. “I’m asking to help my mother explain what happened because she cannot afford counsel, and because every lawyer she called refused after hearing Crestwood Preparatory’s name. My mother is here to represent herself. I am here as her daughter, with her permission, to organize the evidence and help her speak.”
The courtroom changed after that.
Not dramatically.
