The family courthouse barely looked like a courthouse at all.
There were no satellite news vans parked outside. No reporters pacing the sidewalk. No clusters of strangers whispering names they recognized from the evening news. The metal detector sat beside a security guard who barely glanced up as people shuffled through, balancing coffee cups and overstuffed briefcases.
It felt... ordinary.
Quinn had almost forgotten ordinary courtrooms existed.
The last time he'd testified, every hallway had been packed shoulder to shoulder. Cameras waited outside every entrance. Victims' advocates hurried from room to room while television producers whispered into headsets. The entire country had seemed invested in the outcome.
Today, a toddler was coloring on the floor outside Courtroom 4B while h
