The little girl climbed onto it, her feet swinging above the polished wood, and reached for the microphone with both hands, adjusting it too forcefully so that it screeched, sharp and metallic, slicing through the room and killing every last whisper.
“I’m her lawyer,” the child said.
Her voice was clear, trembling only at the edges.
“My name is Ava Moore. I’m nine years old. And I represent my mother because no one else would.”
For a fraction of a second, the courtroom forgot how to breathe.
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