One evening, she brought Marcus to her office and explained the risks in plain language. "A prosecutor may argue that your skill gave you options other people wouldn't have. A jury might find you used more force than the situation required. We cannot guarantee that they will see it our way."
Marcus considered the warning. "If there is a fair plea offer, you have to tell me."
"I will."
"But I am not going to confess to starting a fight I spent half an hour trying to prevent."
Sarah nodded. "Then we prepare to prove what happened."
They went through the evidence until late, stopping only when Marcus's shoulder began to stiffen from sitting. The files spread across the conference table like a map of the last several months: forged notices, utility orders, supplier messages, threats, camera recordings, and witness statements. Marcus remembered the day he had first written Derek's license plate number in the notebook. At the time, it had felt almost petty to record such a thing. Now Sarah used it to connect a visit to a later service request, one small link among dozens.
"Eleanor was the one who kept receipts," Marcus said, smiling faintly. "I used to tell her she saved paper like it was gold."
"Maybe she understood how important it could be."
"She understood people would remember things differently when remembering became expensive."
Sarah looked at him across the table. "I would have liked her."
"Everybody did," Marcus replied, and the simplicity of the answer nearly broke him.
In the weeks before trial, reporters gathered outside Soul Food Sanctuary and published photographs of its boarded rear entrance. Some called the diner a symbol of resistance; others called it a refuge for a dangerous man. Marcus refused almost every interview and concentrated on paying his remaining bills. Donations that were not frozen helped replace equipment, but he insisted that supporters wait until the legal issues around the public fundraiser were resolved before promising anything to other causes.
Mrs. Henderson continued coming for coffee in whatever portion of the dining room Marcus could keep open safely. She brought her own newspaper, criticized every judge mentioned in it, and occasionally sat beside him without talking. Those were the hours Marcus valued most. He could endure hostility when it arrived in recognizable forms, but the persistent uncertainty was exhausting, and her presence reminded him that some people were not waiting for a verdict to decide whether he was worth knowing.
The night before jury selection, Marcus went to Eleanor's small memorial shelf. The newly printed wedding photograph stood in an inexpensive frame because the original glass and wood were gone. He adjusted its angle, set down a fresh flower, and told her what he had been unable to say to anyone else: he was afraid.
"Not of Derek," he whispered. "Not of the men he brought. I'm afraid they'll take this place and make it sound like it never mattered."
There was no answer, only the hum of the refrigerator and traffic turning along Peach Street. Marcus stood a moment longer, then locked the door. In the morning he would put on his one dark suit and walk into a room where people who had never eaten at his counter would decide whether the rest of his life belonged to him.