"Not really. I really think it would be better if I got to testify on my behalf.
I have that right, don't I?"
He sighed and looked very put-upon. "If you insist, I'll call you to speak. But as your lawyer, it's my professional opinion that you should *not* do this."
"I really would prefer to."
He snapped his comm shut. "I'll meet you in the courtroom, then. The bailiff will take you in."
"Can you tell my Gran where I am? She's waiting in the court, I think."
"Sorry. I have other cases to cope with — I can't really play messenger, I'm afraid."
When he left the little office, I felt as though I'd been switched off. The drugs weighted my eyelids and soothed my panic and outrage. Later, I'd be livid, but right then I could barely keep from folding my arms on the grimy table and resting my head on them.
The hearing went so fast I barely even noticed it. I sat with my lawyer and the doctors stood up and entered their reports into evidence — I don't think they read them aloud, even, just squirted them at the court reporter. My Gran sat behind me, on a chair that was separated from the court proper by a banister. She had her hand on my shoulder the whole time, and it felt like an anvil there to my dopey muscles.
"All right, Art," my jackass lawyer said, giving me a prod. "Here's your turn.
Stand up and keep it brief."
I struggled to my feet. The judge was an Asian woman about my age, a small round head set atop a shapeless robe and perched on a high seat behind a high bench.