The next day, the courtroom was packed. The Petersons sat in the front row, looking like grieving victims, their faces arranged in masks of sorrow. The prosecutor’s opening statement destroyed me, painting me as a reckless vigilante who had permanently harmed an innocent child. Mr. Ramsay’s opening, by contrast, was weak and unprepared. I could see it in the judge’s eyes; she’d already made up her mind.
The prosecution spent two days presenting their case: expert witnesses, medical testimony, the parents crying on the stand. It was a perfectly orchestrated performance, and I was the designated villain. It was over. I was going to prison for catching a falling baby.
At the end of the trial, the prosecutor rested his case. “Does the defense have any witnesses?” the judge asked.
“No, your honor,” Mr. Ramsay replied, not even looking at me.
“Does the defense have anything else?”
