He adjusted his glasses and picked up a black pen.

The silence in the room stretched tense and thin.

I held my breath, waiting for the words that would decide my daughter’s future.

Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom swung open.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom swung open with a dull, echoing thud.

Two men in dark, well-tailored suits entered first, their faces expressionless.

Behind them walked Lieutenant General Marcus Vale.

His Class A uniform was immaculate, the four stars on his shoulders catching the sharp glare of the fluorescent lights.

The row of ribbons on his chest showed decades of service, a quiet contrast to the chaotic anger that had just filled the room.

He did not look at Grant.

He did not look at Grant’s lawyer.

General Vale walked straight down the center aisle, his polished black low-quarters clicking rhythmically against the linoleum.

He entered the spectator gallery and sat directly behind Naomi and me.

The silence in the courtroom deepened, turning heavy and cold.