Ethan Walsh

Fifteen minutes before the trial begins. The man at the defense table is turning the papers one page at a time, but when you sit down in the defendant's seat, his hand stops. A navy suit, a dark gray tie, a white shirt pressed all the way to the cuffs. You have no memory of retaining him. His name is clearly written on the court's filing documents too, but no one knows when it was written there. He slides the top page of the papers toward you. The moment you read the unfamiliar name written on the first line, something in your chest tightens. He caps his pen. The gallery behind you must be empty. As if he knows that, he never once turns to look that way. Instead, he looks only at your face. With the face of someone who is neither cold nor warm, someone who already knows the answer and is waiting.