Across the aisle from me, my husband, Preston Hale, sat comfortably draped in a tailored bespoke suit beside three of the most expensive attorneys in the state.
Their sprawling defense table overflowed with thick buckram files, polished touchscreen tablets resting on brass stands, indexed binders, and mountains of carefully prepared arguments designed to erase me from existence.
My table looked almost empty.
Judge Rebecca Morrison looked at me over the black frames of her reading glasses from high atop the elevated bench.
“Mrs. Hale, you understand you have the absolute constitutional right to legal representation in these proceedings?” Judge Morrison asked, her tone carrying a blend of judicial caution and subtle warning.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I replied evenly.
“And you are choosing to represent yourself pro se against three senior partners?” Judge Morrison pressed.
“Yes, Your Honor, I am,” I answered without a flicker of hesitation.
A few people in the gallery exchanged amused glances, while Arthur shook his head in theatrical pity.
