Chapter 7 - The Trial of his Own Making
The Federal District Court of Southern New York was packed to absolute capacity.
Every major news network, financial analyst, and high-society publication had secured seats inside the mahogany-paneled courtroom. Outside, crowds of former Prescott Global investors held signs demanding justice for their ruined pensions, while paparazzi flashbulbs lit up the marble steps like a continuous lightning storm.
I sat in the front row of the gallery, dressed in a sharp, slate-gray tailored suit, my hands rested calmly in my lap. Beside me sat my father and my legal team.
At the defense table, the sight was pathetic.
Aaron sat wearing a faded orange prison jumpsuit, his hands shackled to his waist belt. His hair was unwashed, his face hollowed out by two weeks in a federal detention center, his eyes sunken and terrified. Beside him sat Jasmine, wearing identical prison attire, her former glamour completely stripped away, leaving behind a bitter, terrified young woman who refused to look at him.
On the prosecution side, the Assistant United States Attorney stood before the judge, presenting a mountain of digital evidence provided directly by Sterling Security.
"Your Honor," the prosecutor declared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "The evidence is absolute. Miss Vance actively engaged in corporate espionage, transmitting classified patent framework to Vanguard Technologies. Mr. Pendelton funded the operation. And Mr. Aaron Prescott, in a desperate attempt to evade financial accountability following his company's legitimate asset reclamation by the Sterling Heritage Trust, personally brought the master encryption keys to complete the illegal sale."
Aaron’s court-appointed attorney stood up weakly. "Your Honor, my client was unaware of Miss Vance's true motives! He was manipulated!"
"Objection," the prosecutor countered smoothly, tapping a tablet. "We submit into evidence Exhibit D: an audio recording taken from Mr. Prescott's personal vehicle three hours prior to his arrest, in which he explicitly states his intention to sell the unpatented framework to Vanguard in order to bypass United States jurisdiction."
The prosecutor clicked play.
Aaron's own voice filled the courtroom, ringing out loud and clear:
"We can transfer the operation to Asia! Vanguard Technologies offered to buy our secondary core infrastructure for two hundred million! If we sell the unpatented source code to them tonight, we can start over in Singapore!"
In the gallery, murmurs of disgust broke out among the reporters.
Aaron slumped forward, burying his face in his shackled hands, weeping silently as his own words sealed his fate.
The judge slammed his gavel down sharply. "Order in the court!"
The judge looked over his glasses at the defense table, his expression hardened with severe moral condemnation.
"Aaron Prescott," the judge spoke, his voice heavy with authority. "You were given every advantage a man could dream of—unlimited financial backing, brilliant intellectual property, and a partner who sacrificed her family's quiet privacy to build a life with you. Yet, out of blind arrogance, greed, and spite, you attempted to sabotage the very entity that sustained you."
The judge shuffled his papers, leaning forward.
"On the charges of corporate conspiracy, attempted illegal transfer of protected technological infrastructure, and fraud, I sentence you to twelve years in a federal maximum-security penitentiary, without the possibility of parole for the first eight years. Furthermore, a personal restitution order of $1.5 billion is levied against you in favor of the Sterling Heritage Trust."
Aaron let out a ragged, choking gasp, collapsing sideways against his chair.
"As for Miss Vance," the judge continued coldly, "for espionage and conspiracy, you are sentenced to fifteen years. Mr. Pendelton, twenty years."
BANG!
"Court is adjourned."
The gallery erupted into chaos. Photographers snapped dozens of pictures as federal marshals grabbed Aaron by his shoulders, pulling him up from his seat.
As he was being led down the center aisle toward the holding cell doors, Aaron suddenly stopped. He looked at me—sitting calmly in the front row, serene, immaculate, and utterly untouched by his ruin.
"Alyssa..." Aaron sobbed, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks, his voice cracking with absolute, desperate agony. "Alyssa, please! Look at me! Tell them to stop! I’m sorry! I was wrong! I’m so sorry!"
I stood up slowly.
I didn't yell. I didn't smile with malicious triumph. I simply looked at him with cool, absolute indifference—the kind of look one gives a stranger whose name you have long forgotten.
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"You told me to remember my place, Aaron," I said softly, my voice carrying only to his ears as he was pulled past me. "I did. My place is at the top. Yours is in the dirt."
He was dragged through the heavy steel doors, his hysterical sobs echoing down the cold concrete corridor until the doors slammed shut, cutting off his voice forever.
