Judge Morrison laughed before Marcus Williams had even finished standing.
It was the kind of laugh that did not invite anyone else to join. It was not warm, not accidental, and not born from humor. It was the laugh of a man who had spent decades watching poor boys walk into his courtroom and leave in chains, and who had mistaken repetition for justice.
Marcus stood in the center of the Baltimore felony courtroom wearing a borrowed navy suit that did not fit him. The jacket had come from a church deacon who was twice his size, and the sleeves nearly swallowed his hands. Under the jacket, his wrists were locked in steel cuffs. Around his waist, a chain sat heavy against his ribs, reminding him that even breathing could be controlled by someone else.
He was eighteen years old.
Four months earlier, he had been the valedictorian of his high school. He had stood beneath bright auditorium lights in a blue graduation gown while his mother, Patricia Williams, cried into a folded program. He had told his classmates, “We are not prisoners of our zip code,” and the room had exploded with applause.
Now he was standing in front of Judge Albert Morrison, accused of armed robbery, while the prosecutor smiled like the whole thing had already been decided.
“Another street kid thinks he’s Perry Mason,” Judge Morrison said, peering at Marcus over the rim of his glasses. “Son, save the performance. This is a courtroom, not cable television.”
The words floated through the room and settled over everyone.
At the prosecution table, District Attorney Richard Richardson leaned back with his hands folded over his stomach. He had the relaxed confidence of a man who did not expect resistance. In his mind, Marcus was not a person with a future. Marcus was a file, a case number, a plea offer waiting to be signed.
Behind Marcus, his mother sat in the second row. She still wore her hospital scrubs under a dark coat because she had come straight from an overnight shift at Johns Hopkins. In her lap, she clutched an envelope from Harvard University, creased now from how tightly she had held it.
That letter had once been the proof of everything she had sacrificed for.
Now it felt like evidence from another life.
Marcus opened his mouth, but Judge Morrison raised one hand, silencing him before he could speak.
“You’re going to prison, boy,” the judge said. “The only issue left is how long.”
A few people in the gallery looked away.
Marcus felt his heart beating beneath the stiff shirt collar. His throat was dry. His wrists hurt from the cuffs. His stomach had been tight since sunrise. But he had spent too many nights preparing for this moment to let fear make him small.
“Your Honor,” he said carefully, “may I address the court?”
Judge Morrison sighed as though every second of Marcus’s voice was an inconvenience.
“Briefly.”
Marcus lifted his chin. “I am requesting that this court recognize my constitutional right to represent myself.”
The air in the courtroom changed.
It was subtle at first. A clerk stopped typing. A bailiff glanced toward the prosecutor. Richardson’s smile remained on his face, but it no longer looked comfortable.
Judge Morrison leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
“Faretta
