The courtroom buzzed with tension as we returned for what promised to be a pivotal session. The air felt charged, as if everyone in the room understood that today's proceedings could either seal my fate or finally tip the scales of justice in my favor.
I clutched a bundle of yellowed letters in my hands—letters that had been hidden among my mother's belongings and painstakingly authenticated. They were my trump card, and I could feel the weight of their significance pressing against my palms.
As the judge called the court to order, my lawyer, Carter, rose and approached the bench. "Your Honor," he began, his voice calm but firm, "the plaintiff would like to submit new evidence that directly refutes the testimony of the witness presented yesterday."
There was a ripple of murmurs through the courtroom. Vincent, seated beside his lawyer Whitaker, stiffened, his sharp eyes narrowing as he leaned forward in his seat.
