With the prosthetic leg gone and no other witnesses, our case hung by a thread. Calvin, however, refused to yield. He paced his office, his brow furrowed in thought.
“We have to go all in,” he said, finally stopping. “Tommy is our only remaining witness. His story, told directly, is our last chance to cut through their rhetoric.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “But he’s just a boy. They’ll tear him apart.”
“I know,” Calvin admitted, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a huge gamble. But sometimes, a child’s simple truth can be more powerful than a lawyer’s elaborate lies.”
He turned to me, his eyes serious. “I’ll prepare him, Eleanor. I’ll make sure he understands what he’s up against. He needs to be calm, clear, and unwavering. He needs to tell his story, his truth, exactly as he remembers it, no matter how much they try to confuse him.”
I imagined Tommy on the witness stand, facing Croft’s cold stare, Harrington’s sharp questions. The thought made my stomach churn. But then I remembered Tommy’s quiet resolve, his brave offer. How could I deny him that?
“I’ll talk to him,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I’ll tell him to be strong.”
As the days counted down to the final hearing, I felt a terrible duality: profound pride in my son’s courage, and an overwhelming fear that I was leading him into a battlefield where he was hopelessly outmatched. It was our last stand, and everything depended on a nine-year-old boy.
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