The prosecutor, a sharp-featured man named Reynolds, was wrapping up his closing argument. He paced in front of the jury box, his voice smooth and practiced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Reynolds said, gesturing to Darius. “We all want to believe in the best of people. But the documents do not lie. Mr. Moore used his position of trust to steal over fifty thousand dollars. He forged signatures. He erased logs. He thought he was smarter than the system. We are asking for the maximum sentence of fifteen years to send a message that blue-collar crime is still crime.”
Darius closed his eyes. Fifteen years meant missing his daughter’s entire childhood. It meant she would graduate high school, maybe get married, maybe have a child of her own, all while he stared at concrete walls.
Judge Callaghan wheeled himself slightly forward, his face impassive. “Does the defense have anything further before I issue instructions?”
Darius’s public defender, an overworked woman who had barely looked at the case files until this morning, began to stand up to offer a weak rebuttal.
That was when the heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom groaned open.
The Interruption
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