Her first reaction is to run from the courtroom. She is certain someone will recognize her. Yet she knows that’s impossible. She’d checked time and again in the mirror in the restroom down the hall. She’d studied her outfit. Conservative black skirt and a short black jacket over a white blouse with an understated frill around the collar. The kind of clothes she never used to wear. Suburban, with a clearance-sale twist. Her taste had always run more toward dyed red hair, dark eye shadow, retro-punk-chic whatever. No, this isn’t her. These platinum curls, a double chin, fleshy arms—none of this belongs to her. But here she is—ta-da!—breath heaving from walking up stairs, feeling like her waistband is slicing a two-lane highway across her belly. And yet she st...

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