I showed up in family court wearing a $12 Walmart shirt, and my wife’s attorney treated me like the easiest win on his calendar. Then the judge asked for my full legal name, and the look on her face made my ex grip the edge of her table.
The fluorescent lights in Courtroom 4B buzzed overhead with the tired, flat sound of a government building that had seen too much. The walls were paneled in dark wood. The air smelled faintly of paper, floor polish, and stale coffee. Somewhere behind me, somebody shifted in a hard bench seat, and the little scrape of…
