The Wooden Platform And The Fluorescent Light

The wood-paneled hallway outside the courtroom smelled faintly of floor wax and old paper. The heavy oak doors muffled the fading murmurs of the gallery and the rhythmic clack of the court reporter's machine packing away. Sarah's dark blazer absorbed the fluorescent glare overhead as she knelt down slightly, bringing her eyes level with mine. Her hands rested gently on my shoulders, just as they had inside the courtroom when I stood trembling on the wooden platform. The pressure of her palms was steady, grounding me against the cold marble floor beneath my white shoes.

"You did very well in there, sweetheart," Sarah said, her voice low and even, devoid of the theatrical pity I'd grown used to hearing from social workers and case managers. She reached into her leather tote bag, pulled out a small packet of tissues, and gently dabbed at the remaining salt tracks on my cheek. "More than well. But we need to talk about what happens next, before the hallway fills up with the afternoon docket."

I clutched the fabric of my light pink short-dressed between my fingers, feeling the coarse weave against my knuckles. My throat still ached from speaking into the tall chrome microphone, from forcing those exact words past my teeth while the older judge with the white hair watched from his elevated bench.

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice barely rising above the hum of the overhead vents. "You said he'd be close by. You didn't say anything about him staying at that brick building on Tenth Street."

Sarah's expression tightened imperceptibly, a micro-expression of professional caution crossing her features. She adjusted the strap of her bag and stood up slowly, motioning for me to walk with her toward the recessed alcove near the tall arched windows that overlooked the courthouse parking lot.

"Your brother, Leo, is currently being processed through the county intake facility on Tenth Street," Sarah said carefully, keeping her stride measured so I could keep pace in my stiff white shoes. "It’s a temporary placement, just for forty-eight hours, while the emergency shelter bed availability is sorted out. The judge has to review the guardian ad litem's emergency motion before any permanent foster transfer can be signed."

"Forty-eight hours is two days," I said, stopping abruptly beside a limestone pillar. My braided pigtails tugged slightly against my scalp as I looked up at her. "He hates that place. The lights don't turn off at night, and the other kids—he doesn't know them. He was sitting in the blue button-down shirt I ironed for him on Sunday. He shouldn't be there."

Sarah stopped, turning to face me fully. She didn't offer a hollow reassurance or tell me that everything would magically work out by morning. Instead, she leaned against the stone window frame, her gaze drifting toward the street below where a cluster of reporters and camera crews were beginning to gather near the front steps, their equipment cases glinting in the gray afternoon light.

"Listen to me," Sarah said, her tone dropping into a strict, confidential register. "The video of your testimony inside that courtroom just hit the local news feeds. Someone in the gallery must have streamed the audio, or the court's public feed picked up your microphone. Phones are already buzzing at the Department of Human Services. Within the hour, public attention is going to make the standard intake protocol very complicated."

I followed her gaze to the street below, watching a camera crew hoist a heavy tripod onto the sidewalk. A cold knot formed in my stomach. "Are they going to lock the doors? Are they going to keep me from seeing him?"

"They won't keep you from him if we stay ahead of the paperwork," Sarah said, her hand reaching out to gently guide me down the quieter service corridor toward the employee exit. "We need to move now, before the reporters make it around to the side doors. We're going to stop for a quick bite to eat, review the emergency custody filings, and then I'm driving you directly to the temporary intake shelter where Leo is being held."

"You promise?" I asked, my fingers tightening around the strap of my small canvas bag.