“I think I’m going to be sick,” Thom whispered. He didn’t dare to bring himself closer to Justin for a myriad of reasons that ranged from the believable—the bench underneath him might make a weird sound and everyone would turn and look at him—to the outright ridiculous—the change in his equilibrium might make him swoon, fall forward, knock his head on the heavy bench in front of him, split his skull wide open and, while he, THE DEFENDANT, lay bleeding, Mr. Terrence Cope aka THE PLAINTIFF would make off with Dog without THE TRIAL ever taking place. He looked at the paperwork in his hands and blinked back tears.
The small claims court was held in a dingy little room nestled in a corner of an otherwise ostentatious building. The worn carpeting, stained ceiling tile, and hard benches made it
