My father-in-law laughed out loud the moment the heavy duble doors of Courtroom 4B swung shut behind me.
Arthur Hale did not even bother lowering his voice as his rough chuckle echoed across the varnished oak pews of the public gallery.
He turned his broad, florid face toward the associates sitting behind him and announced that I was clearly too broke to afford a real lawyer.
The first person to mock me to my face, however, was my mother-in-law.
Vivian Hale covered her mouth with a delicate, manicured hand, but I still heard the quiet, mocking laugh escape her painted lips.
Her diamond tennis bracelet sparkled under the harsh fluorescent courtroom lights as she leaned toward her husband, whispering something that made Arthur’s grin widen into pure contempt.
They truly thought I was helpless.
They thought the woman sitting entirely alone at the long petitioner-respondent table with only a worn leather briefcase and a single glass of ice water was someone they could crush beneath their custom-made Italian leather shoes.
