A journalist in the second row is on his feet, phone raised, recording everything. Another is already whispering furiously into an earpiece. The clerk at the side of the room stares at the judge as if seeing a ghost.
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“You… you can walk?” someone blurts out.
Callaghan slams his hands on the bench. “Order! ORDER!” His voice echoes, but it no longer carries authority. It sounds desperate.
Darius Moore turns slowly from the defense table, chains rattling softly around his wrists. His eyes widen as they land on the judge—standing, breathing, exposed.
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