As the heavy oak doors of Courtroom 4B swung open, Clara was shoved inside by Officer Miller.
The gallery was packed. Word had gotten around that a Silicon Valley billionaire was about to crush his ex-wife. Reporters sat in the back rows. Marcus sat at the plaintiff’s table, looking like a king on a throne, whispering a joke to Vance. They both looked back at Clara and smirked.
"Your Honor," Vance announced loudly, standing up before the judge had even entered. "It seems the respondent has arrived, though she clearly had to be escorted by security due to her... unpredictable nature."
Clara didn't say a word. She just walked slowly past the gallery, ignoring the whispers and the pitying stares.
"Take a seat in the gallery, ma'am," Officer Miller ordered, pointing to the wooden benches at the back of the room. "You don't approach the bench until you're called."
Clara ignored him. She kept walking.
"Hey! I said sit down!" the officer barked, taking a step toward her.
Marcus let out a theatrical sigh. "She’s not well, Officer. Please be gentle with her. She doesn't understand how the law works."
Clara reached the heavy wooden gate that separated the gallery from the courtroom floor. She pushed it open.
Richard Vance slammed his hand on his table. "Bailiff! Stop her! She cannot cross the bar!"
But before anyone could lay a hand on her, the side door of the courtroom swung open. "All rise!" the bailiff shouted.
Honorable Judge Harrison, a stern man with thirty years on the bench, strode into the room. The entire courtroom scrambled to stand. The judge didn't even look at his docket. He didn't look at Marcus. He didn't look at the high-priced lawyer.
His eyes locked instantly onto Clara, who was standing frozen in the middle of the aisle, her cheap suit rumpled, a faint bruise forming on her cheek from where she had hit the concrete.
The silence in the room was absolute. Everyone waited for the judge to hold her in contempt. Everyone waited for the final nail in Clara’s coffin.
Judge Harrison stopped. He leaned forward over the heavy oak bench, his expression softening into one of deep concern.
"Counselor," the judge's voice echoed loudly through the dead-silent room. "Are you alright?"
The word hung in the air like a dropped bomb.
Counselor?
Marcus froze, his smug smile sliding off his face like wet paint. He turned to Vance, whose mouth had slightly dropped open in confusion. Officer Miller, standing just behind Clara, physically recoiled, the color draining from his face so fast he looked sick.
"I am fine, Your Honor," Clara replied clearly, her voice suddenly devoid of any weakness. "Just a minor altercation at the entrance. I apologize for the delay."