Courtroom Walls

# Chapter 3: Courtroom Walls

The marble floor is cold beneath my feet, even through the cheap canvas shoes they gave me. The county courthouse is a palace of echoes—every footstep, every cough, every rustle of paper bounces off the high ceilings and comes back at you like a ghost. The smell of wood polish hangs in the air, sharp and clean, the kind of smell that tells you this place has been scrubbed and polished a thousand times, trying to erase the messes that happen here.

I hate it. I hate everything about it.

The handcuffs bite into my wrists as the bailiff leads me through a side door. The jumpsuit they put me in is too big—the sleeves hang past my hands, and the legs bunch up around my ankles. I must look like a kid playing dress-up in his father's clothes. The thought makes my stomach turn.

The courtroom stretches out before me like a cathedral of judgment. Rows of wooden benches face a raised platform where the judge sits, her desk like an altar. The seal of the state hangs behind her, gold and blue, watching everything. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, making everyone's skin look pale and sickly.

I scan the gallery as I'm led to my seat. There she is. My mother. Sitting in the back row, her arms crossed, her face carved from stone. She doesn't look at me. She's wearing her work blazer, the one with the coffee stain on the sleeve she never got out. Her phone is in her hand, and I can see her thumb moving, scrolling through something. Probably her email. Probably anything but this.

Something inside me hardens. Not like armor—like concrete. I turn away from her and face the judge.

Judge Morrison. That's what Mr. Chen told me on the way in. She's a woman with gray hair pulled back tight, glasses perched on her nose, and a mouth that looks like it's never smiled. She stares down at me over those glasses, and I stare back.

"The court calls case number 2024-3189, the matter of the People versus Leo Miller," she says. Her voice is flat, like she's reading a grocery list. "Mr. Miller, you are charged with assault of a police officer, resisting arrest, and disorderly conduct. Do you understand these charges?"

I don't answer. I can feel the weight of everyone's eyes on me—the bailiff, the court reporter, the few people in the gallery. Mr. Chen is sitting at a table to my left, his briefcase open, papers spread out. He looks tired. He always looks tired.

"Mr. Miller," the judge says again, "I need you to respond."

I feel it building. The heat in my chest, the tightness in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it won't go.

"What do you care?" The words come out before I can stop them, and they're loud. Too loud. They echo off the walls and come back at me. "You don't care. None of you care. You just want to lock me up and throw away the key."

The judge's gavel comes down with a crack that makes me flinch. "Mr. Miller, I will not tolerate outbursts in my courtroom. You will show respect, or I will hold you in contempt."

"Respect?" I laugh, but it's not a happy sound. It's the sound of something breaking. "You arrested me. You put me in handcuffs. You dragged me here like I'm some kind of animal. And you want me to respect you?"

The bailiff steps forward, his hand reaching for my shoulder. I jerk away before he can touch me. "Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me!"

My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it. I hate the sound of it, the weakness in it. I'm shaking now, my whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. The heat in my chest has spread to my face, to my hands, to every part of me. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to run.

The judge bangs her gavel again. "Order! Order in the court!"

Mr. Chen is on his feet, his hands raised. "Your Honor, if I may have a moment with my client—"

"He's in contempt," the judge says. "Bailiff, remove him."

"No, wait—" Mr. Chen turns to me, his eyes pleading. "Leo, please. Just calm down. Let me help you."

But I can't calm down. The walls are closing in, the marble floor is tilting, and the fluorescent lights are buzzing in my ears like a swarm of bees. I can feel the hand of the bailiff on my arm, and I twist away, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Get away from me!"

The courtroom erupts. The bailiff grabs me tighter, his fingers digging into my arm. I struggle, but I'm weak—too weak. The jumpsuit is too big, my body too small. I'm a bird in a net, flapping uselessly.

"Enough!" The judge's voice cuts through the noise. "I'm ordering a recess. Bailiff, take the minor to the holding room. Mr. Chen, I want to see you in my chambers."

The holding room is small. White walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, a single chair. No windows. The fluorescent light here is worse—it flickers, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. The bailiff leaves me alone, but I know there's a camera in the corner, watching.

I pace. Back and forth, back and forth. My fists are clenched so tight my nails dig into my palms. I can't stop shaking. The anger is still there, but it's fading now, leaving something hollow and cold in its place.

The door opens. I stop pacing and look up.

Detective Harding is standing in the doorway. She doesn't come in. She just stands there, her hands in her pockets, her face unreadable. She's wearing the same dark jacket she had on when they arrested me, the one with the badge clipped to the pocket.

She doesn't say anything. She just watches.

I turn away from her and start pacing again. I can feel her eyes on me, and it makes my skin crawl. I want to tell her to leave. I want to scream at her. But the words won't come.

After a long moment, she steps back and closes the door.

I'm alone again.

I don't know how long I pace. Five minutes. Ten. Time moves differently in this room, slow and sticky like honey. I finally stop and sink onto the chair, my head in my hands.

The anger is gone now. All that's left is the exhaustion, deep and bone-tired. I close my eyes, and the images come flooding back. The night before. The man's hands. The smell of his breath. The promise whispered in my ear: *If you tell anyone, it will get worse.*

I open my eyes. The walls are still there. The camera is still watching. My mother is still in the courtroom, scrolling through her phone, pretending I don't exist.

The door opens again. Mr. Chen comes in, his face tight.

"They're placing you in juvenile detention pending a full evaluation," he says. "The judge agreed to it. Your mother didn't object."

I don't answer. What's the point?

"Leo," Mr. Chen says, his voice softer now, "I'm trying to help you. But you have to work with me. You have to tell me what's going on."

I look at him. He's not a bad man. He's just tired. Tired of cases like mine, tired of kids who won't talk, tired of a system that grinds everyone down.

"There's nothing to tell," I say.

He sighs. "Okay. Let's go."

The recess ends, and I'm led back into the courtroom. The judge reads the order, her voice flat and final. "Leo Miller is hereby remanded to the custody of the Maplewood Juvenile Detention Center pending a full psychological and social evaluation. The court will reconvene in thirty days."

My mother is still in the back row. She doesn't stand. She doesn't say anything. She just watches as the bailiff takes my arm and leads me toward the side door.

I stop. I turn. I look back.

Detective Harding is standing near the gallery, her hands still in her pockets. She's watching me. And for a moment, something passes between us—a flicker of something I can't name. She gives me a small nod. Just a dip of her chin, barely visible.

I don't know what it means. I don't know if it means anything at all.

But I hold onto it as the bailiff pulls me through the door, as the marble floor disappears beneath my feet, as the fluorescent lights fade into the dim hallway.

I hold onto it like a lifeline in the dark.

The door closes behind me, and I'm gone.