The following morning at nine, we did not go to an open courtroom.

Judge Marcus Holmgren’s private chambers were lined with dark oak bookshelves and heavy burgundy draperies that kept out the morning fog of Hackensack.

Sitting across the conference table was Carlo’s lead defense counsel, Robert Sterling—a man whose $3,000 suits were paid for by laundered union dues—and Assistant Prosecutor David Vance, no relation to Sofia, a career bureaucrat whose eyes kept darting nervously toward the leather briefcase on the floor.

Sofia sat in the corner with her arm tight around Emma’s shoulders. Emma was swinging her legs from a high leather chair, holding a box of animal crackers I had bought for her at the corner bodega.

"Your Honor," Sterling began smoothly, adjusting his gold cufflinks. "The defense moves to dismiss the testimony of the minor child on the grounds of developmental incompetence and severe parental suggestion. This child cannot distinguish between fantasy and reality. For all we know, she thinks Mr. Moretti was attacked by a dragon."

Judge Holmgren, an older jurist with thick white eyebrows and thirty years on the bench, looked over his half-moon glasses at Emma.

"Hello, young lady," the judge said kindly.

Emma chewed on an animal cracker. "Hello."

"Do you know where you are?"

"In a big office with a lot of books," Emma said. "Like Mr. Alejandro's house, but his books have more dust."

A quiet, involuntary twitch touched the corner of Holmgren's mouth. "Do you know what it means to tell a lie, Emma?"

"It means you say something that didn't happen, and your nose doesn't grow, but your tummy feels like you ate sour milk."

"And did anyone tell you what to say to me today?"

"Mr. Alejandro told me to eat my crackers and only speak when you asked me a question," Emma said honestly.

Sterling cleared his throat, trying to regain momentum. "Your Honor, the defense is prepared to stipulate that the child administered the injection. What we challenge is the allegation that defendant Carlo Moretti knowingly obstructed aid. The state has presented no audio corroboration from the private residence."

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the oak table.

"We have the audio, Mr. Sterling," I said.

Sterling sneered slightly. "The grand jury record shows the audio track was corrupted during the initial incident, Mr. Moretti. You can't introduce evidence that was wiped by your own security personnel."

"The audio on the local server was disconnected," I said, turning my gaze directly to Assistant Prosecutor Vance, whose face was already beginning to bead with sweat. "Because Nico Bellini unplugged the secondary microphone. But Nico was thorough. He didn't just maintain an internal server. He had a backup cloud partition routed through the logistics terminal in Port Newark."

I laid Emma's crayon drawing on the center of the table.

Then, beside it, I placed an official forensic transcript certified by the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s field office in Newark at seven o'clock this morning.

"Emma saw Senator Gallagher standing by the study window," I said, my voice cutting through the stuffy warmth of the chambers. "The Senator wasn't on the phone from Trenton. He was in the house. He arrived with Carlo twenty minutes before the espresso was served."

Judge Holmgren picked up the federal transcript. As his eyes moved down the page, his expression turned from professional patience into something cold and formidable.

"Mr. Vance," the judge said, his voice dropping into a register that made the prosecutor flinch. "Did your office have possession of this federal cross-reference when you filed the motion to depose this child?"

Vance didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat moved, but no sound came out.