Chapter 3 - The Arraignment
The private monitor in my father’s study displayed a high-definition courtroom feed from the District Federal Court of Appeals.
David looked different without his custom-tailored Italian suits and expensive cologne. Dressed in a standard-issue orange jumpsuit, his hair unstyled and his shoulders visibly slumped, he looked like a small, frightened boy pretending to be a man. Beside him sat a public defender who looked like she had already given up on the case before opening her briefcase.
The prosecution was led by Assistant U.S. Attorney Marcus Vance, a bulldog of a lawyer my father had known for decades.
“Your Honor,” Marcus said, his voice echoing cleanly through the audio speakers in our study. “The defendant, David Miller, faces multiple federal charges: wire fraud, interstate extortion, identity theft, and obstruction of justice relating to the systematic embezzlement of over four point two million dollars from the personal trust of Sarah Sterling-Miller.”
David leaned into his microphone, his voice frantic and high-pitched. “Your Honor, this is a malicious distortion! My wife is unstable—she fell during a domestic dispute! Her father is using his political influence to railroad me—”
“Mr. Miller,” the judge interrupted, his tone flat and glacial. “You are currently on a closed-circuit feed. Do not speak unless addressed by counsel. Furthermore, the court has reviewed the initial forensic reports, as well as the audio recording captured by the smart-home security hub in your kitchen—a recording which your wife’s legal team miraculously salvaged before your associates tried to scrub the local hard drives.”
My breath hitched. I hadn't known about the audio backup.
On screen, David’s face went completely grey. His jaw worked silently, like a fish gasping for air.
“The recording,” the judge continued, “clearly captures Mr. Miller stating, ‘Nobody is coming for you,’ immediately following the deliberate infliction of grievous bodily harm upon Mrs. Miller. Bail is denied as a severe flight risk and a danger to society.”
The gavel slammed down. Clack.
David slumped forward, burying his face in his cuffed hands as the bailiffs hoisted him up by his elbows and led him away through the heavy side doors.
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“That’s round one,” my father said quietly, resting his hand over mine on the armrest. “Now comes the hard part: rebuilding.”
“I don’t want to rebuild, Dad,” I said, looking down at my cast. “I want to renovate.”
