His skin looked yellow under the fluorescent lights.

His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something to me, but his attorney grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down into his seat.

“Sit down, Ethan,” Harris muttered, his voice carrying across the quiet room.

“Do not look at her.”

Two bailiffs wheeled a large television monitor into the center of the courtroom.

A technician in a blue shirt plugged a black cable into the side of the screen.

He connected the other end to a laptop on the prosecution table.

The room smelled of old paper, damp coats, and floor wax.

No one spoke.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the clicking of the technician’s keyboard.

My friend, Dr. Rachel Carter, sat down next to me in the gallery.

She slid her hand over mine and squeezed.

“Are you ready for this?” Rachel whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

My voice sounded small, but it was steady.

The judge returned to the bench and sat down.

“Mr. Vance, you may proceed,” she said.

Vance nodded to the technician.

The television screen flickered, then turned bright white.