The side of the room had a couple of rows of empty benches where a jury could be seated, but, for our case, the judge would be the only person responsible for determining my fate. Seated in the front row, with a sign indicating it was for witnesses, were my therapist, Miss Amanda, and one of the doctors who had worked with me at the hospital, whose name escaped me. Everyone stood as the judge entered the courtroom from a door on the opposite side. She was an older woman, with short, curly silver hair, who was wearing a long black robe, her face carrying a serious expression as she surveyed the courtroom, before smacking her gavel to bring the hearing to a start.
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