“They’ve retained counsel,” he said. “And they’ve seen what we have.”
He paused, letting the silence do its work.
“They’re prepared to plead guilty to forgery and fraud. In exchange, the prosecution will recommend reduced sentences.”
I closed my eyes and listened, feeling the word settle into place.
Guilty.
Not misunderstood.
Not misrepresented.
Guilty.
He explained the likely outcome in careful terms.
Time served to be credited.
Additional months in custody.
Fines.
Restitution.
Probation.
Consequences proportionate to what they had done—grounded in statutes and precedent.
It sounded almost clinical.
I realized I preferred it.
There was nothing theatrical about the truth.
The day the pleas were entered, I sat in the back of the courtroom, unnoticed.
Ryan looked smaller than I remembered.
His shoulders were hunched.
His confidence had been stripped away by the weight of the room.
Lisa sat beside him, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
When the judge asked if they understood the charges, they answered in unison.
When the judge asked how they pleaded, their voices were barely audible.
“Guilty.”
The word echoed softly, then disappeared into the high ceiling like a breath released.