Because for seven years, Ricardo trained himself on the idea that you were his most responsive audience. Your hurt used to reassure him. Your anger used to energize him. Your silence used to invite him to fill it. Men like Ricardo do not merely want to win. They want to watch you understand that you lost.
So when you do not even grant him your eyes, you force him to confront something unfamiliar.
You are no longer performing for him.
You guide the boys forward until you reach the petitioner’s table. The bailiff gives you a strange look, uncertain whether compassion is permitted under courtroom procedure. Judge Warren Harlow, a silver-haired man with a reputation for disliking theatrics of any kind, glances down at the clock, then at you.
“Mrs. Hale,” he says, voice measured, “you’re late.”
