Michelle Jones sat at the defendant’s table with her hands folded so tight her knuckles looked pale under the fluorescent lights. She kept her chin up anyway, because if she didn’t, she knew she’d start shaking, and if she started shaking, she might not stop.
Across from her, Linda Craraven sat with her purse clutched to her chest like a flotation device. She was dressed like she was going to church: stiff collar, neat hair, pearls that caught the light every time she turned her head. Her lips were pressed into a line so thin it looked like somebody drew it with a pen.
Between them sat the truth—filed, labeled, and printed out in black-and-white.
At the bench, Judge Porter leaned forward, one elbow resting near a stack of folders. He had the kind of face you saw in small-town billboards and late-night court show reruns: calm eyes, a voice that could cut through noise without raising volume, and an expression that said he’d heard every kind of human nonsense a person could invent.
“Okay,” he said, tapping the case file. “We’re here for case number 7626. Linda Craraven versus Michelle Jones.”
Linda perked up like the sound of her own name gave her power.
Judge Porter glanced at her. “Miss Craraven, it shows here you’re suing Miss Jones for seventy-five thousand dollars. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Linda said, crisp and confident.
Judge Porter looked at Michelle. “And Miss Jones, you’re countersuing for five thousand five hundred dollars. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Michelle answered.
Judge Porter nodded once, slow. “Alright. Miss Craraven, tell me what happened.”
Linda’s shoulders rose as if she’d been waiting all week to perform this part. She pointed across the room with the same finger she probably used to scold cashiers about expired coupons.
“She hit me with her car,” Linda said. “In the parking lot of the grocery store. She came at me like she was gonna run me over.”
Michelle’s jaw tightened.
“She is lying,” Michelle muttered, before she could stop herself.
Judge Porter held up a hand. “I’ll get to you. Miss Craraven, continue.”
Linda nodded, like she’d been granted permission to unload. “I had no way to defend myself except with the cart I had in my hand. If I hadn’t thrown the cart at her car, she would have killed me. She would’ve run me over.”
The courtroom went still, the way it always does when someone drops the word killed like it’s a mic.
Judge Porter blinked slowly. “So you’re saying you were walking your shopping cart back, correct?”
“Yes,” Linda said. “I was bringing it back to the stall.”
“And she came at you with her car?”
“Out of nowhere,” Linda insisted. “Out of nowhere.”
Judge Porter took a breath that sounded like patience. “And once you pushed the cart toward her vehicle… what happened?”
Linda’s eyes flashed. “After it hit her car, she jumped out and accused me of harassing her—as if I did something wrong. She said I damaged her car.”
Michelle let out a short laugh, sharp and disbelieving.
Judge Porter glanced her way, then back to Linda. “I would imagine if you push a shopping cart into the path of a vehicle, it’ll cause damage. You agree?”
“Absolutely,” Linda said, quick. “But I was defending myself.”
Judge Porter’s eyes narrowed a fraction, not angry—curious. “Now I keep hearing you say you were defending yourself. Do you two know each other?”
“No,” Linda snapped. “No.”
Michelle shook her head. “Never met her in my life.”
Judge Porter leaned back. “So why do you think she was trying to hit you with her car?”
Linda didn’t hesitate. “She’s crazy.”
Michelle’s mouth opened, then closed. If she spoke, it would turn into a fight, and she refused to give Linda the satisfaction of dragging her down to the mud.
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