Now, I’m leaning against a stone pillar at the far edge of the crowd, sunglasses on, collar up. Nobody recognizes me back here, or if they do, they’re too focused on the main event to care. There must be two hundred reporters jammed onto the steps, plus another dozen camera operators and a wall of satellite trucks lining the curb.
Soon, the courthouse doors open.
My father looks thinner and older than the last time I saw him, but no less formidable. His clothes are neat and clean and his face is somber. The cuffs are gone, which means he posted bail.
He steps up to the cluster of microphones, and the crowd goes dead quiet. He opens his mouth to speak—but just before the words emerge, his eyes find mine. Then, like that was the cue he needed, he begins.
“Eighteen years ago,” he says to
