Chapter 17: Trial

The courthouse was different on the morning of the trial.

Not the building itself that was the same glass-and-steel rectangle that had been downtown since the 1970s, reflecting the desert sun like a challenge to anyone who thought Phoenix was just a small town with big heat. But the crowd was different. The energy was different. The air itself seemed heavier, thicker, the way air gets before a monsoon when the clouds have been building for hours, and the sky is the color of a fresh bruise.

Dozens of people stood outside the entrance. Some held signs of support for me, support for the school board, support for positions I didn’t even understand. News vans lined the street, their satellite dishes pointing at the sky like metal flowers searching for light. Reporters spoke into cameras, their voices urgent, their faces serious, the way reporters always look when they think something important is happening.

“Don’t look at them,” Sarah said. She was walking beside me, her duct-tape briefcase in one hand, her other hand on my arm. “Don’t smile. Don’t frown. Don’t give them anything.”

“They’re going to take pictures anyway.”

“Let them. Just don’t react.”

My mother walked on my other side. She was wearing the same black dress she’d worn to my father’s funeral, the only dress she owned that felt appropriate for something that mattered. Her face was pale, but her steps were steady. David and Maggie walked behind us, close enough to touch, close enough to catch me if I fell.

The crowd parted as we approached, not because they wanted to, but because the security guards had made a path, had cleared the way, and had done whatever security guards do when they’re paid to keep order.

“Lottie!” someone shouted. “Over here!”

“Is it true you’re going to testify?”

“Are you scared?”

I didn’t answer. I kept walking. Sarah’s hand was on my arm, steady and firm. The glass doors slid open. The air conditioning rushed out cold, aggressive, the way air conditioning always is in Phoenix, a reminder that humans weren’t meant to live here, that we survived through technology and stubbornness and the refusal to admit defeat.

The metal detector beeped when I walked through.

Not because I was carrying anything, but because the machine was sensitive, because the security guard had set it to the highest setting, because someone wanted to make a point.

“Step aside,” the guard said.

“It’s her shoes,” Sarah said. “The sandals have metal buckles.”

“Step aside.”

I stepped aside. Removed my sandals. I walked through the metal detector again. This time, it was silent.

The guard nodded. I picked up my sandals. Put them back on.

“This way,” Sarah said.

We walked toward the elevator.

The courtroom was full.

Not the way courtrooms are full on TV, not standing room only, not overflowing into the hallway. But full enough. Dozens of people sat in the rows of benches: reporters, legal observers, curious citizens who had nothing better to do on a Tuesday morning. The school board members sat on one side of the aisle, their faces tight, their hands folded. Sarah led me to the other side, where a table waited with a pitcher of water, two notepads, and a small American flag in a stand.

“Sit here,” Sarah said. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t say anything unless I tell you to.”

“I know the rules.”

“I know you know. I’m saying them anyway.”

I sat down. The chair was a hard, wooden, unpadded chair, the kind of chair designed to remind you that court was not a place for comfort. My mother sat behind me, in the first row of benches. David and Maggie sat beside her. The judge wasn’t there, dogs weren’t allowed, which was probably for the best, since he would have barked at the bailiff and tried to lick the judge’s robe.

The door at the front of the courtroom opened.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. “The Honorable Judge Morrison presiding.”

Everyone stood. Judge Morrison walked to his bench, the same judge who had presided over the preliminary hearing, the same white hair, the same wrinkles, the same face that had seen too much to be surprised by anything. He sat down. Arranged his robes. Adjusted his glasses.

“Be seated,” he said.

Everyone sat.

“Ms. Chen,” Judge Morrison said. “You may begin.”

Sarah stood up. I walked to the center of the courtroom. Her heels clicked on the floor, a sound that echoed in the silence, a sound that said I am here, I am ready, I am not afraid.

“Your Honor,” she said, “this case is about a sixteen-year-old girl who decided to stop hiding. It’s about a school board that changed the rules specifically to punish her for that decision. And it’s about the First Amendment, which protects the right to be different even when being different makes people uncomfortable.”