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Chapter 699:
“Your Honor.” His voice filled the courtroom, calm and absolutely certain. “The defense raises questions about the chain of custody. Fair questions. Which is why—” he reached for a folder and withdrew a document, “—the SEC obtained a lawful warrant through the Southern District, based on probable cause established through independent investigation. The Swiss records were not the foundation of our case. They were confirmation of what we already knew p>
He presented the warrant. The judge examined it and nodded.
“Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Hahn p>
Easton sat. Caught June’s eye. The smallest smile, quickly suppressed.
She didn’t smile back. Couldn’t—not here, not with the Beasleys watching, not with the weight of her parents’ memory pressing down on her chest.
But she felt it. The warmth. The certainty that she was not alone in this.
The prosecutor continued. The evidence mounted. The defense’s objections grew more desperate, more frequent, more obviously futile.
𝖠dd𝗂𝘤𝘁𝘪v𝖾 ѕ𝘵o𝗋ies o𝗇.сom
At noon, the judge called recess.
June stood, stretched, felt the tension in her shoulders that had been building for hours. Easton appeared at her elbow—close enough to touch, far enough to respect the public distance she needed.
“There’s a conference room,” he said. “Private. I can have lunch brought p>
“I’m not hungry.” She looked at him, really looked, and saw the exhaustion he was hiding. “You should eat. You’re doing all the actual work p>
“I’m doing the performance.” He guided her toward the side door, his hand at the small of her back—protective without being possessive. “You’re doing the witness. The memory. The—” he stopped, searched for words, “—the reason any of this matters p>
The conference room was small, institutional, windowless. June sat in a chair that had been designed for discomfort, and felt the first crack in her composure.
“I thought I’d feel something,” she said.
Easton paused in the act of unwrapping a sandwich someone had delivered. “What did you expect to feel p>
“Victory. Satisfaction.” She laughed, and it sounded wrong in the small room—too sharp, too brittle. “I spent ten years planning this. Ten years of research, of preparation, of—” she stopped, pressed her palms against her eyes, “—of becoming someone who could do this. And now they’re sitting out there, destroyed, and I feel p>
“Empty p>
“Numb.” She dropped her hands. Looked at him. “Is that wrong? Should I feel something else p>
Easton set the sandwich aside. Crossed to her, crouched until they were eye level. “You feel what you feel, June. There’s no should. There’s only—” he reached for her hand, laced their fingers together, “—only what comes next. What you do with the numbness. Whether you let it consume you, or p>
“Or p>
“Or whether you let me help you feel something else. Eventually. When you’re ready p>
The recess bell rang.
June stood. Smoothed her skirt. Found the mask she needed—the composure, the absolute control that had carried her through years of performance.
“Let’s finish this,” she said.
The afternoon passed in legal procedure. The Beasleys’ lawyer negotiated a plea: Susan would accept full responsibility, Richard would plead to lesser charges, the family would keep some fraction of their stolen wealth in exchange for cooperation.
June listened to the deal being struck. Watched Susan’s face crumple as she realized what her husband was offering—her freedom for his, her future for his comfort, their marriage’s final transaction.