Walter hesitated. “Did the court appoint you?”
“Not exactly,” Harlow said, smiling faintly. “Let’s just say an old friend called in a favor.”
Before Walter could ask who, the bailiff called the room to order.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Michael Carmichael.”
The gavel struck once, but the air was already electric.
The judge’s eyes met Walter’s—and held.
No one else noticed the faint tremor that passed through Carmichael’s hands as he adjusted his papers.
“Before we continue,” he said, “this court will hear testimony relevant to the defendant’s background.”
The prosecutor frowned. “Your Honor, this is highly unusual for a misdemeanor—”
“It’s necessary,” the judge interrupted, tone measured but unyielding.
The back doors opened.
Three men entered wearing dress uniforms, ribbons gleaming.
Gasps rippled through the audience as they took seats in the front row.
One of them—tall, silver-haired, still carrying the gravity of command—stepped forward.
