The courtroom was already crowded when sixteen-year-old Marcus Reed walked through the wooden doors.
He stopped for half a second.
Not because he was frightened.
Because everyone was staring at him.
Marcus had expected that.
He was wearing a gray suit that had clearly belonged to someone much larger. The shoulders sagged. The sleeves covered most of his wrists. His black shoes were polished carefully, but one of them had a thin white scratch across the toe.
In his left hand, he carried a battered leather briefcase.
It looked older than he was.
The courtroom clerk looked up from her papers.
The bailiff looked twice.
Someone in the gallery whispered, "Is that somebody's kid?"
Another person laughed quietly.
Marcus kept walking.
At the defense table, his older sister, Nia, sat with her hands folded tightly in front of her. She had been in custody for eleven days.
She looked exhausted.
But when she saw Marcus, something changed in her expression.
"You're here," she whispered.
Marcus nodded.
"I told you I would be."
Before Nia could say anything else, Judge Harold Whitmore entered the courtroom.
Everyone stood.
The judge was sixty-three years old, with silver hair, a hard mouth, and a reputation for having very little patience. He had been on the bench for more than twenty-five years, and attorneys in the county knew better than to waste his time.
He sat down.
"Be seated."
The room settled.
Judge Whitmore looked over the case file.
Then he looked at Marcus.
His eyebrows rose.
"Young man."
Marcus stood.
"Yes, Your Honor?"
"Are you waiting for someone?"
"No, sir."
"Then why are you standing at the defense table?"
"I'm representing my sister."
A few people laughed.
The judge stared at him.
Then, surprisingly, he smiled.
Not warmly.
It was the kind of smile adults sometimes gave children when they believed the child had said something adorable.
"Representing your sister?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
The courtroom became strangely quiet.
Judge Whitmore leaned back.
"Sixteen."
"Yes, sir."
"And you believe you're qualified to represent a defendant in a criminal proceeding?"
Marcus looked directly at him.
"No, sir."
The judge smiled again.
"At least you're honest."
Marcus continued.
"I don't believe I'm qualified. I know I'm not a licensed attorney. But my sister has exercised her rights under the circumstances available to her, and I am here to assist her as permitted."
The smile disappeared from the judge's face.
"Who taught you to speak like that?"
"My mother."
Someone laughed again.
Marcus didn't react.
His mother had been dead for four years.
She had been a paralegal.
Before she died, she had taught Marcus something she believed was more important than memorizing laws.
"Never confuse confidence with knowledge," she had told him.
Marcus had remembered every word.
The prosecutor, Daniel Price, stood from his table.
He was forty-eight, neatly dressed, and known throughout the county as an aggressive prosecutor.
"Your Honor, I would ask the court to clarify the defendant's representation."
Judge Whitmore nodded.
"Mr. Reed, step forward."
Marcus did.
Price looked him over.
"Do you have legal training?"
"No."
"Law degree?"
"No."
"Bar admission?"
"No."
"Any courtroom experience?"
Marcus paused.
"Not as an advocate."
Price smiled.
"Then perhaps we should stop pretending this is something it isn't."
Marcus said nothing.
Judge Whitmore opened the file.
"The defendant, Nia Reed, is charged with aggravated burglary, possession of stolen property, and obstruction."
Marcus nodded.
"I understand."
Price began his opening statement.
According to the prosecution, Nia had entered a private residence at approximately 9:40 p.m. on a Tuesday night.
A laptop, a jewelry box, and an envelope containing nearly $4,000 had allegedly been taken.
A neighbor had reported seeing a woman leaving the property.
Police later stopped Nia's vehicle less than two miles away.
Inside the trunk, investigators found a laptop and jewelry.
It sounded straightforward.
The prosecution had a victim.
It had property.
It had an arrest.
It had a police officer who claimed to have identified Nia.
Judge Whitmore listened.
Marcus wrote something in his notebook.
Then another thing.
Then another.
Price finished.
"The evidence will show that the defendant was caught with property belonging to the victim shortly after the burglary."
Judge Whitmore looked toward Marcus.
"Mr. Reed?"
Marcus stood.
The prosecutor folded his arms.
Marcus walked to the center of the courtroom.
"Your Honor, I would like to ask one question."
Judge Whitmore sighed.
"Go ahead."
Marcus looked at the police officer seated behind the prosecutor.
"Officer Bennett, when you stopped my sister's vehicle, did you have a warrant?"