I didn’t look at her with hurt or betrayal.
I watched my sister lie under oath with the same clinical focus I used when a hostile witness contradicted their own deposition.
Judge Okafor’s expression darkened.
Dad leaned back in his chair.
Then he smiled at me.
He believed his bomb had detonated exactly as planned.
The medical records.
Lauren’s testimony.
The image of a predatory soldier manipulating a dying old woman.
I calmly opened my briefcase.
The latch clicked once in the silence.
I removed a thick stack of papers and placed them flat on the table.
It was my turn.
I stood, buttoned my jacket in one motion, and walked toward the clerk’s desk.
My heels struck the hardwood at the same measured pace I used when approaching the bench in a military tribunal.
I submitted a bound folder of encrypted satellite communication logs pulled directly from Department of Defense archives.
