Courtroom 7 of the Riverside County Courthouse was a study in faded grandeur. Once-gleaming oak panels had dulled with age, and the American flag beside the judge’s bench hung limp and dusty in the stale air. The harsh fluorescent lighting cast unflattering shadows across the faces of those present, highlighting worry lines and tired eyes. The room smelled of lemon-scented cleaner, barely masking decades of anxiety and desperation.

In the defendant’s chair sat Sergeant David Keane, 34—his weathered face a map of experiences most civilians couldn’t comprehend. His right leg, or what remained of it, was carefully concealed beneath his pressed khaki pants, while his left hand occasionally trembled—an invisible reminder of the IED that had changed his life forever during his third tour in Iraq. His wheelchair, a military-issue model that had become an extension of himself, was positioned awkwardly beside the defense table, as if the courtroom itself hadn’t been designed with someone like him in mind.