The pre-trial waiting area assaults my senses like an interrogation—fluorescent lights that I can't see but can feel buzzing against my skin, the squeaking of dress shoes on linoleum, cologne and perfume and fear-sweat all competing for dominance in my nostrils. I sit with my spine pressed against the hard bench, shoulders squared despite the tremor working its way down from my neck to my fingertips. Cole's thigh presses against my left side, Juan's against my right, their warmth the only ...