Chapter 9 - The Tribunal of Justice
Three weeks later, the grand auditorium of the Armed Forces Judicial Center was packed to absolute capacity.
The three cadets sat at the defense table in plain civilian suits, stripped of their uniforms, their brass buttons, and their family crests.
Ethan Cole looked hollowed out. His broken wrist was set in a plain gray cast, his gaze locked onto the polished walnut tabletop, unable to look up at the gallery where his former classmates sat in stony, furious silence.
Brandon Hale sat with his shoulders slumped, his fingers twitching nervously, while his three high-priced defense attorneys whispered frantic notes back and forth. Tyler Whitmore sat slightly apart from the other two, having already signed a full state’s-evidence confession in exchange for a recommendation against maximum sentencing.
The presiding judge, Colonel Margaret Bennett, adjusted her glasses and looked down from the high mahogany bench.
“Cadet Ethan Cole,” Judge Bennett’s voice echoed through the vaulted room. “For the charges of conspiracy to commit espionage, theft of classified government property, and aggravated assault resulting in severe bodily injury, this court finds you guilty on all counts.”
A collective intake of breath rippled through the spectators.
Cole didn't move. A single tear rolled down his pale cheek, hitting the legal pad in front of him.
“You believed your heritage made you immune to the laws of this nation,” Judge Bennett continued, her voice sharp as an obsidian scalpel. “You believed that a uniform was a cloak for brutality. You will spend the next twenty-four years at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, without the possibility of early administrative parole.”
She brought the heavy wooden gavel down.
*CRACK.*
“Cadet Brandon Hale,” she continued. “Guilty on all counts. Sentenced to eighteen years.”
*CRACK.*
“Cadet Tyler Whitmore. In recognition of your cooperation, sixteen years.”
*CRACK.*
Federal marshals stepped forward, clicking heavy iron chains around the waists and ankles of the three young men who had once walked the quadrangle of Franklin National as if they owned the earth.
As they were led through the side doors toward the transport van, Ethan Cole glanced back toward the gallery one last time.
Standing at the railing was Lily.
She wore a dark green blazer over an ivory silk blouse. The surgical wires had been replaced with delicate internal titanium retainers that were barely visible. Her jaw was straight, her chin held high, her green eyes burning with an unshakable, quiet fire.
Beside her, holding her hand, was her father.
Ethan Cole saw me. He saw the quiet, ordinary man in the brown corduroy jacket who had dismantled an empire of privilege in seventy-two hours without firing an unauthorized shot.
May you like
He looked away, his head sinking to his chest as the heavy steel doors locked shut behind him forever.
***
