Chapter 13 - The Federal Subpoena
The weekend passed in a blur of terror and sleepless nights. I packed away our clothes, staring at Mia while she slept peacefully in her pink bed, wondering if I was about to be dragged away from her by federal marshals.
On Monday morning, a black town car identical to the one that had carried us away from the estate pulled up to our brownstone curbside. A driver in a sharp charcoal suit stepped out, holding the rear door open for me.
I didn't run. Running only made you a fugitive.
When we arrived at the United States District Court in lower Manhattan, the stone steps were swarming with reporters, camera crews, and aggressive legal teams. Flashbulbs popped like lightning storms as I stepped out of the vehicle, clutching my purse tightly against my chest.
“Ms. Evans! Is it true you worked as an undercover operative for the Moretti crime syndicate?” shouted a reporter, shoving a microphone into my face.
“Did you forge medical records to overthrow Marco Moretti?” yelled another.
Federal marshals quickly formed a protective wedge around me, escorting me past the media mob and through the heavy oak doors of the courthouse.
Inside, the courtroom was a cavernous, intimidating chamber of dark wood, high ceilings, and tiered seating. On the prosecution side sat Marco Moretti—dressed in a crisp orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed, looking haggard and furious, flanked by three high-priced defense attorneys who looked like sharks smelling blood in the water.
At the defense table sat Lorenzo Moretti.
He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal three-piece suit, his shoulders broad, his dark hair neatly combed, looking every inch the untouchable king of New York. As I walked down the center aisle, accompanied by a court bailiff, Lorenzo turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine, carrying a steady, unyielding anchor of calm amidst the storm. He didn't smile, but a subtle nod of his head told me everything I needed to know: Trust me.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Katherine Sterling,” the bailiff boomed.
Everyone stood. Judge Sterling, a severe woman with silver-streaked hair and wire-rimmed glasses, took her seat behind the elevated mahogany bench.
“Be seated,” she commanded.
The courtroom settled into a tense, suffocating hush.
“We are here to hear testimony in the matter of United States v. Moretti,” Judge Sterling announced, shuffling a stack of legal briefs. “The defense has called Clara Evans to the stand regarding the events of October 14th at the Moretti estate.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I walked up to the witness box, placed my hand on the Bible, swore the oath, and sat down in the wooden chair that felt like an electric slide.
Marco Moretti’s lead defense attorney—a slick, silver-tongued man named Harrison Vance—strode slowly toward the witness stand, adjusting his silk tie, wearing a predatory grin.
“Ms. Evans,” Vance began, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness. “Let’s talk about your background. Prior to your employment at the Moretti estate, you were an impoverished single mother, working odd jobs, facing eviction, correct?”
“Yes,” I answered quietly into the microphone.
“And yet, miraculously, the moment you enter the Moretti household—a known stronghold of organized crime—your financial troubles vanish overnight. You walk out with a six-figure cashier's check and a newly purchased brownstone in Brooklyn. Isn’t it true, Ms. Evans, that you weren't hired as a cleaning woman at all... but rather as a planted operative to help Lorenzo Moretti fabricate his miraculous recovery and frame his brother for corporate theft?”
The courtroom erupted into murmurs. Judge Sterling banged her gavel sharply.
May you like
“Order! Counsel will refrain from badgering the witness.”
I gripped the wooden arms of the witness chair, my knuckles turning white. I looked across the room. Lorenzo sat motionless, his eyes locked on mine, waiting to see if I would break.
