“This is exactly what we need to break Harrison’s silence.”

Three days later, the mahogany benches of the federal courtroom in Minneapolis felt cold beneath me.

The air smelled of old paper, lemon wax, and damp winter coats.

Patricia sat at the defense table, her spine rigid, her pearl necklace gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Harrison sat two chairs away from her, his face pale and sweat glistening on his temple.

He refused to look at his mother.

Elena stood at our table, her hands resting flat on the polished wood.

The judge, a formidable woman named Harris, adjusted her reading glasses and looked down at the documents.

“Call your next witness,” Judge Harris said.

Elena turned toward the defense table.

“We call Harrison Voss,” she said clearly.

A low murmur rippled through the small gallery.

Patricia’s head snapped toward her son, her eyes narrowing into cold slits.

Harrison stood up slowly, his knees visibly shaking as he adjusted his blue tie.

He walked to the witness stand and took the oath.

His hand was trembling when he lowered it from the Bible.