Only the sound of the rain beating against the high glass windows filled the room.

Judge Whitaker’s eyebrows drew together as he compared the loan application with the court financial affidavits.

He looked up from the papers, his gaze landing squarely on Trevor.

Trevor’s attorney was leaning over their table, whispering urgently in Trevor’s ear.

Trevor shook his head, his jaw clenched, staring straight ahead.

I remained standing at the podium, my heart thumping against my ribs.

Judge Whitaker took off his reading glasses and set them carefully on his desk.

He leaned forward, looking down at Trevor.

“Mr. Pike,” the judge said, his voice dangerously calm.

“Your Honor, if I may explain,” Trevor’s attorney began, stepping forward.

“I did not ask you to speak, Counselor,” Judge Whitaker interrupted.

He looked back at Trevor, his eyes cold.

The judge reached for a thick blue binder on his desk, his fingers tapping the cover.

Beside me, the landline phone on the clerk’s desk began to flash a bright red light.

The clerk, a woman with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, picked up the receiver on the second ring.