His fist hit the bench. I’m sick of it. Sick of watching you people destroy this country while demanding we feel sorry for you. Sick of your sob stories and your excuses and your endless pathetic victimhood.
He swept his hand toward the gallery, toward the Black families, sitting in terrified silence. You want to know why the prisons are full of your kind? Because you fill them. You through your choices, through your culture, through your refusal to be civilized.
Khloe let him talk. Every word was another nail in his coffin. Every phrase was more evidence for the permanent record. Do you have anything else to say, Miss Brooks?
He finally demanded. Any more statutes you want to quote? Any more evidence you want me to ignore? Khloe opened her mouth to continue, but Whitmore cut her off with a wave. Never mind.
I’ve heard enough. 15-minute recess. He stood abruptly. When we return, you will plead guilty and stop wasting this court’s time, or I will demonstrate what real consequences look like for people who disrespect my courtroom. He disappeared into his chambers.
The door slammed behind him. Khloe exhaled slowly. Her hands were trembling, but her mind was clear. She had everything she needed.
Enough recorded evidence to end his career. But across the courtroom, Raymondd Foster was rising from his seat, walking toward her, his face a mask of conflicted emotion. Their confrontation was coming and Khloe wasn’t sure she was ready for it. Raymond caught up with her in the hallway.
His hand grabbed her elbow, urgent. What are you doing? His voice was a harsh whisper. Khloe, what the hell are you doing here?
She turned to face him fully. This man who had comforted her at her brother’s sentencing, who had encouraged her to transform grief into purpose, who had promised to always stand beside her, this man who was friends with the monster who destroyed her family. I think you already know, Uncle Raymondd. His face crumbled.
You’re the investigator, the one I tried to warn Harold about. It’s you. and you’re the one who tried to protect him. " Her voice was ice last night when you left that voicemail. "Harold, someone’s coming for you. Be careful.
" Like you were protecting a friend. How do you know about— I was outside your window. I heard every word. She stepped closer. Harold.
You called him Harold, first name. Like a buddy, like someone you care about. Raymondd’s mouth worked soundlessly. Guilt, shame, fear, all fighting for dominance on his face.
Khloe, listen to me. It’s complicated. Harold and I go back 30 years. We were in law school together. But that doesn’t mean—doesn’t mean what?
Her voice cracked despite her determination to stay composed. That you’ve been protecting him. that you knew exactly what kind of man he was while you sat with me year after year listening to me cry about what the system did to Terrence. I didn’t know Harold was Terrence’s judge.
I swear the records were sealed by the time I discovered. But you stayed friends with him. The accusation hung in the air after. Even after you found out, even after everything you learned about his patterns, you kept golfing with him, kept covering for him, kept being his friend.
Raymondd’s silence was its own confession. For 5 years, Khloe continued, voice trembling now. I cried on your shoulder about what happened to my brother. 5 years. And you never once told me you knew the man responsible.