"I was going to report it—"
"You didn't report it in the moment. You didn't call security. You didn't call 911. You didn't flag the guard at the front desk. You walked into the room, Mr. Carson. The question is: what were you carrying when you walked out?"
"Objection!" Sullivan was on his feet.
"Your Honor," Isaac said, his voice still level, still steady, still eighteen years old and absolutely immovable, "I'd like to play the security footage."
Whitmore nodded. "Proceed."
The technician hit play. The screen showed the second-floor east wing corridor. Timestamp: March 14th, 11:38 p.m. The hallway was empty. No movement. No Elijah. Nothing.
Then, at 11:42 p.m., a figure appeared walking quickly, carrying two large boxes stacked on top of each other: Bradley Carson. Alone. Moving toward the loading dock. No janitor in sight. No second person. Just Carson carrying the exact equipment he'd accused Elijah of stealing.
The gallery erupted. Gasps. A woman covered her mouth. One of the reporters stood up. The bailiff stepped forward, hand raised, trying to settle the room.
On the stand, Carson crumbled. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. His eyes shot to Sullivan: desperate, drowning, reaching for a lifeline that wasn't coming.
Sullivan sat frozen. His face was stone. But his pen, gripped between his fingers, had stopped moving thirty seconds ago.
Isaac turned to the judge. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. "Your Honor, my father mopped these floors for eleven years. He raised two children alone after losing his wife. He never took anything that wasn't his—not a pen, not a paper clip, not a single thing." He pointed at Carson. "The man who stole from this courthouse is sitting right there on that witness stand." Then he pointed at Sullivan. "And the man who protected him is sitting right there at the prosecution's table."
The courtroom was silent. Not a murmur. Not a whisper. Not a breath.
Judge Whitmore removed his glasses, set them on the bench, and stared at Garrett Sullivan for a very long time. Sullivan didn't move, didn't speak, didn't straighten his tie. For the first time in thirty years, Garrett Sullivan had nothing to say.
Judge Whitmore let the silence sit. He didn't rush, didn't bang his gavel. He let the weight press down on every person in that room until no one could pretend they hadn't felt it. Then he spoke.
"Mr. Carson, step down from the witness stand."