My attorney, Daniel Reyes, had repeated those words so many times that morning I could still hear them in my head as I stood outside the Fulton County Courthouse.
He had said them before we entered the building.
Again in the elevator.
And one final time just outside the courtroom.
“Whatever they say, whatever they do, keep your expression neutral. Keep looking forward. Let me handle the rest.”
I had nodded every time.
But I didn’t fully understand why until I stood beneath the blazing Atlanta sun, watching Patricia Monroe clap her hands together as if she had just witnessed the ending of a wonderful performance.
Except the performance she was celebrating was the collapse of my marriage.
Eight years.
That was how long I had been married to Grant Monroe.
Eight years reduced to a judge’s signature inside a courtroom that smelled of old paper and industrial cleaner.
