The snow in Chicago had turned to gray slush along the curbs.

Miller drove me to the Dirksen Federal Courthouse in the loop.

We entered through a basement garage to avoid the reporters gathered at the main entrance.

The courthouse halls were wide, finished in cold marble and dark wood.

Two armed marshals escorted us into the courtroom.

The gallery was nearly empty, saved for a few federal agents and two reporters in the back row.

I sat behind the prosecution table, my hands clenched in my lap.

A side door opened, and the metallic clink of chains echoed through the room.

Adrian walked in, escorted by two marshals.

He wore an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his frame.

His face was pale, and he walked with a slight limp from the warehouse shooting.

He did not look at the judge.

He looked at me.

His dark eyes were tired, but they held a steady, quiet resolve.

I tried to smile, but my lips only trembled.

“All rise,” the bailiff called out.

Judge Harrison, a stern woman with gray hair, took her seat on the bench.