The courtroom was smaller than I had expected. I had imagined something grand, something with marble columns and soaring ceilings, but the room where Lena Cho stood trial was plain and beige and smelled like old carpet. I sat in the witness box, my hands folded in my lap, and I answered every question the prosecutor asked.
Lena was there, of course. She sat at the defendant's table, her hair pulled back, her face pale, her eyes fixed on me with a hatred that was almost beautiful in its intensity. She didn't look away. She didn't blink. She wanted me to know that she would remember this moment for the rest of her life.
I told the truth. It took four hours. I explained the documents, the transfers, the false manifests. I explained the recordings and the years of silence. I explained how I
