The bottom seam of the shirt unraveled, exposing a tiny, tightly folded slip of paper.

He reached deep into the lining and pulled the paper out, holding it up between his fingers.

Grant’s smirk instantly disappeared.

His face went entirely pale, his jaw tightening as he stared at his son.

“What is that, son?” Judge Harlan asked, leaning over his high wooden desk.

“It’s the truth,” Nolan said.

He took three steps toward the bench, holding the small, folded note out to the bailiff.

The bailiff’s black leather shoes squeaked on the polished linoleum floor.

He took the small piece of folded paper from Nolan’s outstretched hand.

He carried it up the three wooden steps to the judge’s bench.

Judge Harlan adjusted his reading glasses.

He unfolded the paper slowly, smoothing out the deep creases with his thumb.

I held my breath, my hand resting on the back of Nolan’s chair.

The silence in the courtroom was absolute.

Even the low hum of the air conditioner seemed to fade away.

Grant leaned forward, his elbows on the defense table, his eyes locked on the paper.