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The air inside Courtroom 402 smelled of stale formaldehyde, yellowed paper, and cold marble.  Don Chuy sat at the long, polished wooden defense table, looking impossibly small inside his only suit—a charcoal-gray jacket he had bought twenty years ago at a local flea market, now frayed at the cuffs and smelling faintly of mothballs and pine-scented floor cleaner. His gnarled hands, calloused by three decades of wringing heavy cotton mops and dragging iron trash bins, rested trembling on his knees.