“Continue, Mrs. Lawson,” the judge said.
For two hours, I laid out the architecture of my own deception. I walked the court through the spreadsheets, the fake consulting contracts, the forged board minutes where Preston had voted himself discretionary spending authority while I was away at my father’s bedside during his final illness.
When the prosecution finished, Sterling stood up for cross-examination. He tried to rattle me, suggesting that as a member of the board, I should have caught the discrepancies sooner. He implied that my absence, grieving my father, was a sign of negligence.
“You left the daily management of the firm to your husband, did you not?” Sterling snapped, leaning over the podium.
I met his gaze without blinking. “I trusted my husband,” I said clearly. “That was my mistake. Trusting him did not give him the right to steal from the company my father built, nor did it give him the right to plot against my life.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the gallery. Sterling opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it and sat down.
