A fired cafeteria worker. No union. No lawyer. A laughable claim of wrongful termination, wrapped in accusations of safety violations that would surely be dismissed as bitterness from someone who should have been grateful to work there at all.
When Lydia and her daughter approached the plaintiff’s table, the sound of muffled amusement rippled through the gallery, subtle but unmistakable, a shared understanding among the powerful that this was not a real threat, just another poor woman reaching above her station.
Latham didn’t even bother to hide his smirk.
“Your Honor,” he said smoothly, rising before anyone had formally begun, “I must ask whether this is some kind of protest performance. Is the plaintiff intending to represent herself… with a minor present?”
A few people chuckled.
Judge Elliot Branham, a man who had worn the robe for twenty-five years and prided himself on efficiency, peered down over his glasses.
“Ms. Moore,” he said, measured and distant, “where is your legal counsel?”
Before Lydia could answer — before the fear that had been clawing at her chest for weeks could turn her voice into something small — the chair beside her scraped loudly against the floor.
