William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Marsha sat frozen in her chair, her manicured fingers trembling against the polished wood of the defense table.
The heavy wooden gate at the front of the courtroom clicked as Karen Gable led me toward the double doors. Behind us, Marsha remained seated at the defense table, her head slightly lowered, while her attorney began packing his legal files into a brown leather briefcase.
In the carpeted hallway outside Courtroom 4B, the air smelled of floor wax and old paper. Sue Melton stood near the marble water fountain, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her shoulders squared like a soldier on parade.
“This is a temporary administrative error,” Sue said, her voice carrying easily across the high ceiling. “Judge Geller is a local probate official, not a real jurist. We will file an immediate appeal in the superior court on Friday morning.”
Karen stopped walking, turned her shoulder, and clicked her silver pen three times in rapid succession.
