I collapsed to my knees during an asthma attack, fighting for air while my younger sister held my inhaler just out of reach. She smirked and said, “Gasp, loser.” My parents stood by and did nothing. Today, in court, when the judge said, “Before we begin, let’s watch a family video,” she started shaking—and then screaming.

She took the stand first. She spoke in that polished voice she’d perfected her whole life, painting herself as a hardworking woman wronged by an unstable coworker. She sold the room a narrative so clean, so practiced, I saw the jury lean in.

Then her lawyer said the one sentence that set everything on fire:

“Your Honor, all of this stems from Ms. Hale’s sister’s troubled and unreliable history.”

The judge turned her attention to me.

“Ms. Brooks,” she said. “Please approach.”

My pulse hammered. My palms sweated. But I walked forward. I swore in. I sat down.

And then—just before Camille’s attorney could begin—my own lawyer stood.

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