A uniformed officer entered the corridor, prompting Emma to step back a pace. He moved stiffly like a marionette, his boots pounding the concrete floor, his broad shoulders rigid. Silence seemed her best option, speak only if spoken to, hope against hope for a second instance of mistaken identity.
The officer ignored her, pausing only to glance at the still flashing screen, before entering the court room. ‘Officer Santos reporting, sir.’ A heavy-duty voice, in keeping with his occupation and body shape.
‘Approach the offender,’ the magistrate ordered.
By leaning to the right, Emma could see Officer Santos march towards Cal, but further magisterial instructions were muffled by loud yawns and the scrape of a chair, so she moved to stand directly in front of the now blank screen. It was im
