My daughter sobbed, “Dad, my husband hit me with a baseball bat,” before the phone was ripped from her hand—but Travis had no idea who was already racing toward his front door.

The hallway outside Courtroom 3B was packed tighter than a subway car during rush hour.

Camera crews, local reporters, and curious onlookers pressed against the stanchions as the heavy wooden doors swung open. I walked arm-in-arm with Lena, who wore a simple beige trench coat and dark sunglasses, her right arm still immobilized in the white fiberglass cast. Derek flanked our right side, scanning the crowd with the vigilance of a secret service agent.

As we entered the courtroom, all heads turned.

Sitting at the defense table was Travis Miller. He looked unrecognizable compared to the swaggering, arrogant man who had brandished a baseball bat just days ago. His hair was unwashed and messy, his orange jumpsuit hanging loosely over his shoulders, and his wrists shackled securely to a steel chain around his waist. He didn't look up as we took our seats at the plaintiff's table.

Up on the elevated bench, Judge Henderson—a notoriously strict, incorruptible jurist brought in specially from an adjoining district to avoid any appearance of local bias—adjusted his spectacles and slammed his gavel once.

"Order in the court. We are here for the formal arraignment of State versus Travis Miller."

For the next twenty minutes, the charges were read aloud in rapid, formal succession. Felony domestic battery causing severe bodily injury. Terroristic threats. Grand larceny of over one million dollars. Violation of emergency restraining orders.

When asked how he pleaded, Travis’s court-appointed public defender—a tired-looking man carrying a stack of files three inches thick—stood up nervously.

"Not guilty to all charges at this time, Your Honor, pending further review of—"

"Save it, counselor," Judge Henderson interrupted, his voice echoing authoritatively through the courtroom. "Given the severity of the violent nature of the offenses, the documented audio evidence from the 911 dispatch center, and the clear flight risk associated with the defendant’s current financial collapse, bail is hereby denied. The defendant will be remanded to the custody of the county department of corrections until trial."

Bang.

The gavel came down with a finality that sounded like a gunshot.

Travis finally raised his head, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Lena across the courtroom. There was no rage left in his gaze—only a pathetic, hollow desperation. He opened his mouth as if to say something, perhaps to plead, perhaps to threaten one last time.

Officer Higgins grabbed him firmly by the shoulder and steered him toward the side exit leading back to the holding cells.

Lena didn't flinch. She turned her head slightly, looking out the tall arched windows of the courthouse toward the bright, open sky above the city.