“Sustained as to form,” Judge Calder said, though she didn’t look convinced. “The jury will disregard the characterization.”
But anyone who has sat on a jury knows that some things, once heard, don’t evaporate just because a judge instructs you to let them go.
Leah didn’t push. She knew better than to chase a toddler’s fragile courage. Instead, she asked, “Norah, do you remember the night Mommy got hurt?”
Norah’s lower lip trembled. She shook her head once—no, not in denial, but as if trying to clear a fog. Then she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Camille looked surprised; she hadn’t known Norah had brought it.
Norah unfolded it carefully. It was a crayon drawing. A crooked table. A tall figure with long, jagged red lines around its arms. A smaller figure under a scribbled square that might have been a countertop.
