Her lawyer, a man with a leather briefcase and polished shoes, was whispering to her.

She didn’t look at us.

She looked straight ahead, her jaw set in that hard, familiar line.

Melanie was sitting two benches down, looking at the floor.

“Don’t look at her,” Leo whispered to me.

We sat on the opposite side of the hallway.

A bailiff opened the double doors of the courtroom and called our names.

The courtroom was small, dominated by a high wooden bench where Judge Archer sat.

She was an older woman with sharp eyes and a pair of reading glasses resting on her chest.

Josephine’s lawyer stood up first.

“Your Honor,” he said, “my client is seeking emergency temporary custody of her grandson, Samuel Sullivan.”

He handed a stack of papers to the clerk.

“We have affidavits showing a pattern of neglect by the mother, Grace Sullivan,” he continued.

“That’s a lie,” I said, my voice cracking.

Judge Archer looked at me over her glasses. “Mrs. Sullivan, you will have your turn to speak.”

Josephine’s lawyer smiled faintly.