A court officer called her docket number. “The people against Natalie Doris Murphy.” The bailiff led her to the center of the room, where Matthew Hawley and his large gray suit joined her. A Korean-American woman, petite and feminine despite her power suit, stood to their right. She didn’t look much older than Nat, but she emanated an air of formidable capability. On the bench, looming above them, was the judge, an imposing figure with dark skin juxtaposed against thick white eyebrows. He was completely bald, his pate shiny like it had been buffed and polished. His name plate read: JUDGE GORDON BELL.

Judge Bell briefly scanned the file in front of him before he spoke. His voice was commanding but perfunctory. (Nat knew from television shows that judges like him might process as many as a hundred arraignments per day.)

“The prosecution will bring forward notices.”

The tiny woman, evidently the assistant district attorney, moved forward, submitting various papers to the judge, while announcing their corresponding numbers. Matthew Hawley was invited to do the same, and he approached the bench with more forms. Nat stood by, forlorn and confused. She heard her lawyer plead not guilty on her behalf, but the rest of the process was a confounding blur of paperwork and legal jargon. When the judge brought up bail, Nat’s focus became intense.

“Natalie Murphy is charged with felony murder,” the petite prosecutor began. “She has no ties to the community. No job, no property, no family in New York. The people request remand.”

The judge allowed Hawley to counter.

“The defendant’s father has flown across the country to be in court today, and he’s able to post bail. Her mother is on a plane as we speak. The defendant has no criminal history and no warrants against her.” He paused, then, his voice softening. “The defendant is a young, naive woman from a small town. This experience has already caused her extreme emotional distress. Sending her to Riker’s could cause severe damage to her mental health.”

“May I remind the court,” the prosecutor sniped, “that this young, naive woman from a small town is accused of shooting her sugar daddy in the face.”

The spectators burst into scandalized whispers. Matthew Hawley erupted, defending his client against the prejudicial remarks. But Nat couldn’t take in any of it. Her ears were ringing, her cheeks burning, the room swimming before her eyes. The charges against her, articulated in such a crude fashion, were so salacious, so degrading, so mortifying. She knew how they would sound to her father, to the judge, to the onlookers. Nat had sold herself to a rich man, and when he no longer wanted her, she had killed him. Her knees shook as shame and self-hatred threatened to overwhelm her.

She felt the judge’s heavy gaze on her then. For the first time, he was looking at her, not as another arraignment to process, but as a person. The mess of a girl trembling before him must have stirred his sympathy. Or perhaps, he just saw how weak, how pathetic, how harmless she was.