Walter studied him—the crisp suit, the silver hair, the eyes that once belonged to a terrified medic bleeding in desert dust.
“You were just a kid,” Walter said softly.
“You remembered,” Carmichael whispered.
“How could I forget?”
For a long heartbeat, neither spoke.
Then Walter straightened, the soldier’s posture returning. “No, sir. I don’t want another judge. You finish what you started.”
Carmichael nodded, blinking rapidly. “Then let’s do this right.”
The prosecutor stood, voice unsteady now. “Your Honor, given these extraordinary circumstances, the state moves to dismiss all charges with prejudice.”
“So ordered,” Carmichael said immediately, striking the gavel once.
He turned to Walter. “Mr. Grady, this court owes you more than freedom. It owes you gratitude.”
For the first time since Margaret’s funeral, Walter smiled—small, hesitant, but real. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The audience erupted in applause again. Even the bailiff wiped his eyes.
