"Good morning! What can I get you?"
The barista is bright-eyed in a way that should be illegal at this hour. Cheeks pierced, eyeliner winged out to perfection, tiny drawn-on freckles across the bridge of her nose. Two soft brown braids frame her face.
"Good morning, darlin'. This is actually my first time here. Do y'all have any suggestions?"
She lights up. "I love your accent. Okay — are you feeling something sweet, or something strong?"
"Both. Definitely both."
"Perfect. Name?"
"Harvee. With two E's." I spell it out and she's already turning away, milk steamer hissing to life.
I take in the shop while I wait. Tropical plants everywhere, real and fake mixed together without apology. And there, perched by the door like he owns the place, is a ceramic iguana. Remarkably lifelike. I startle before my brain catches up.
The barista catches my reaction and grins. "He has that effect on people. We call him Freddy."
"Freddy. The fake iguana."
"He started as a prank on the owner. Now he's kind of a mascot." She sets a cup on the counter. "Here you go. The 'Feeling Freddy.'"
I take a sip. Caramel, mocha, hazelnut, and underneath it all a whisper of cinnamon and nutmeg. Warm and ridiculous and exactly right.
"This is wonderful, thank you." I reach for my card.
She waves it off. "First one's on the house. Thank Freddy." She blows the ceramic iguana an exaggerated kiss.
I laugh, something genuine and easy. "Thank you, Freddy." I glance at her name tag. "And thank you, Melanie."
I step back into the humidity with my coffee and point myself toward the courthouse.
I arrive at 7:35, early enough to set up Mr. Turner's materials, late enough that the nervous energy has already calcified into something more like dread. As his assistant, I handle everything before and after, the invisible labor that makes the whole thing run.
People begin filtering in. I hear someone greet Mr. Turner and reach up automatically to adjust my blouse before he can find a reason to comment.
"Clark Turner!" A bald man in an expensive suit crosses the room with his hand extended. Older, late fifties, the kind of man who fills a room without raising his voice. "You look well. Ready for today?"
"More than ready." Turner smooths his slicked-back hair and straightens his tie, the gesture of a man who considers confidence a personality.
He's not unattractive, objectively speaking. Smooth skin, olive complexion, dark eyes, the kind of broad shoulders a suit was made for. Under different circumstances, with a different character underneath, he might have been someone women wanted to know. But he is who he is, and who he is has spent the better part of two years making my skin crawl.
The judge enters. The room rises.
He wastes no time. Formalities, instructions, and then it begins.
The next few hours blur. Objections, testimony, legal jargon bouncing off polished wood and marble. I take notes with my head down, trying to stay useful, trying not to look at the plaintiff's table.
I look anyway.
The widower sits in the front row. Light brown eyes, hollow and fixed straight ahead, like blinking might be the thing that finally breaks him. Mid-thirties, maybe. Too young to look that gutted. Beside him, two small boys, neither old enough for theirfeet to reach the floor. One leans against his father's arm. The other swings his legs in the slow, unconscious rhythm of a child who doesn't fully understand why everyone is so quiet.
My chest tightens and stays that way.
On the other side of the boys sits an older man, early fifties, tailored suit, narrow eyes that catalogue everything. Polished. Controlled. Money worn like a second skin.
Across the aisle, our defense team calls it circumstantial.
The judge calls recess. The room exhales.