The Wistful Witness
The gavel did not strike the sound block so much as it collided with it, a dull, wet thud that echoed in the high vaulted ceiling of the Senate Judiciary Committee chamber, a space designed to intimidate with its marble columns and its silence. I sat at the witness table, my hands folded tightly in my lap, feeling the rough texture of the woolen scarf I had wrapped around my neck that morning,...
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