I sat behind the prosecutor’s table thinking about the people who’d told me to forget the whole thing. They had meant well, most of them. They didn’t know how the word on the hood looked when the light hit it at an angle. They didn’t know how it felt to have someone try to turn your life’s work into an accusation.
FRAUD.
The word had been designed to make me defend everything I’d built. The car, the company, my house, my right to be there. I thought of Mrs. Bell leaving money under the cup holder. My father repairing the garage roof. Marisol catching errors before I had enough customers to survive one. Theo working nights. Nia studying for certifications. Twelve years of people doing real work.
None of that history could be photographed in one morning. The Hargroves had counted on it.
During closing arguments the prosecutor described the property damage, the planning, the evidence, and the false accounts afterward. The defense asked the jury to consider whether the state had met every element of the charged offense, and reminded them that a bad joke could be reckless without proving every allegation made against Dylan.
Both sides finished. The judge instructed the jury carefully. Then the jurors left.
I waited in a small room with Dana and Marisol. We ate sandwiches from a paper bag. I looked at a photograph on my phone of the Lamborghini before the vandalism, parked outside First Light in the afternoon sun. The yellow looked almost impossibly bright.
Marisol saw it. “You miss driving it?”
“More than I thought.”
“You’ll drive it again.”
“I know.”
She rested her hand on my shoulder. “But that’s not what you’re really waiting for, is it?”
I looked away. “I want somebody to say out loud that what happened wasn’t a joke.”
She nodded. “I think they already have.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE — The Verdict
The jury returned the next morning. I was in the hallway speaking with Arthur when the clerk called us back inside. My stomach tightened as I entered, but my hands remained steady. Strange how the body learns new habits under pressure.
The verdict found Dylan guilty of intentional property damage under the charge submitted to the jury. The judge thanked the jurors for their service and scheduled a separate sentencing hearing. The restitution process would require additional documentation; the insurer’s claims and any civil disputes would follow their own procedures.
There was no dramatic collapse. Dylan lowered his head. Vivienne made a small sound and immediately pressed a tissue to her mouth. Victor closed his eyes. Brooke sat motionless.
I felt no joy. I had expected relief, but instead I felt tired in the way you feel after carrying something heavy and finally putting it down, only to discover your muscles still remember its weight.
Outside, reporters asked if the result had restored my faith in the system. I told them the jury had considered evidence and reached a decision, and that I was grateful for the neighbors who had preserved the recordings. I declined to turn my emotions into a statement for television.
One reporter asked, “Would you still be pursuing this if it had been a cheaper car?”
I looked directly at him. “If somebody poured paint on a delivery driver’s van, the loss might cost that driver his job. The amount would be different. The need to tell the truth wouldn’t.”
