The sixth-floor federal courthouse library felt like a sanctuary I hadn’t realized I still needed.
Tall arched windows let in slanted afternoon light that painted golden stripes across long oak tables and endless rows of leather-bound volumes. The air carried the faint, comforting scent of aged paper and polished wood. For the first time in days, the chaos outside — Valdez’s revelations, the system’s grip, Shawn’s fractured restraint — felt momentarily distant.
Judge Robert Warren sat across from me at a sprawling table, sleeves rolled once, reviewing my latest practice MEE answers with sharp focus. His pen moved with precise strokes as he annotated my work.
“Your doctrinal grasp is solid,” he said, tapping a section on my legal pad. “But the MEE rewards surgical precision. Let me show
