The narrative constructed by the state was simple and damning. They claimed Darius, a trusted mechanic at Harlow’s Auto Body, had forged service logs and diverted company funds into a private account. The evidence seemed insurmountable: signed intake forms, digital transfer records, and the sworn testimony of his boss, Martin Harlow.
To the jury, Darius looked like a desperate blue-collar worker who had gotten greedy. To Darius, it felt like he was watching a movie of someone else’s life, a horror film where the ending was written before the opening credits rolled.
Callaghan was a legend in the state’s legal circuit, but not for his mercy. He was known as “The Iron Gavel.” He was brilliant, meticulous, and utterly devoid of warmth. Five years ago, a drunk driver had t-boned his sedan at an intersection. The crash had taken two things from him: his wife, Martha, and the use of his legs.
Since that night, Judge Callaghan had ruled from a wheelchair. The nerve damage was severe, leaving him in constant, low-level pain. He could stand for seconds, perhaps, if he exerted Herculean effort, but he chose not to. He sat in his chair like a king on a throne of ice, his disability serving as a permanent reminder of the chaos of the world—chaos he tried to control through rigid, merciless application of the law.
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