When they finally called my name, I stepped forward, hands clasped loosely in front of me, eyes fixed somewhere just below the judge’s bench.
Judge Whitmore didn’t look like the kind of person who entertained excuses. She was composed in a way that felt deliberate, her posture straight, her expression sharp without being openly unkind. The kind of judge who didn’t need to raise her voice to make a point. The kind who had already heard every version of “it wasn’t my fault” and had no patience left for any of them.
She glanced at the file, turning a page, then another. For a moment, it felt like every other hearing I’d ever seen from the benches—quick, efficient, impersonal.
Then she paused.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said, her voice steady, “this report indicates you are a veteran.”
