There were columns of numbers, wire transfer routing details, and offshore bank names.

I took out my phone and began photographing every single page.

My hands were steady, despite the drumming of my heart.

The next morning, the rain had turned into a steady, gray downpour.

Courtroom Six was cold.

The smell of wet wool and old paper filled the air.

I sat next to my attorney, Sarah Jenkins, at the defense table.

My hands were clasped in my lap, hidden beneath the table.

Gavin sat across the aisle, looking as polished as ever in a charcoal gray suit.

Philip Dane was whispering to him, pointing at a stack of legal briefs.

Gavin caught me looking and gave me a faint, mocking smile.

He still thought he was going to win.

He still believed his lies would carry him through.

“All rise,” the bailiff announced.

Judge Marian Beckett entered the courtroom.

Her black robes rustled as she took her seat behind the high bench.

She adjusted her glasses and looked down at the documents in front of her.