The bright orange evening sun hung in the horizon like a Widow waiting for her son to come home, scared he would run into the jaws of the world below the dense milky golden clouds. For Marcus Lee it was reckoning, a day he had everything he needed to strip down one of the biggest names in America.
His suit was a little too extravagant, but it had to be, on an evening like this.
"This way sir" the first guard he met on his way in ushered him unto the second floor of the chambers.
"Laides and gentlemen, I'd like you to meet the District Attorney, Marcus Lee" A man the same age as Marcus Lee introduced him to a room of twelve people all solemn with blank faces.
"Thank you Charles" Marcus smiled too wide. He set his briefcase down on the only table in the centre of the room. The company of twelve took their sears, three women and six men.
The room was stripped of any ceremony, just silence—no judge, no defense, just twelve citizens who looked ready to hand over Christ to Pilate.
Marcus cleared his throat, adjusted his tie and smiled warmly at the stenographer, she either let his smile pass over her head or was just there for work, regardless he proceeded.
"Good evening esteemed jurors, as Charles stated earlier I am Marcus Lee, the District Attorney. A post well deserved from years of carrying the law on my back, on my tongue and in my heart."
His eyes scanned the arch of the desk of twelve.
"I have for twenty years been carrying the true attribute of the American mind, freedom and justice for the common man."
"But ladies and gentlemen of the jury what is freedom?, what is justice? when men like this exist at the pinnacle of our nation" His hand slapped the air with a black and white photograph of Vincent Moretti before the jurors. He passed a few copies around.
"The man you are looking at, is the the embodiment of what not an American should be—arrogant, entitled, power drunk, corrupt and a murderer."
Marcus adjusted one cufflink on his left hand.
"Vincent Moretti, 34, divorced" Marcus spilled the words like sins.
The projection screen went live, and Marcus angled himself to the right side of the table, looking from the jurors to the screen.
A click echoed. The lights dimmed, on screen grainy footage flickered to life—a hidden camera recording from a downtown restaurant booth.
Vincent Moretti's face came into view. Calm, composed. A faint smile as he leaned toward Michael Salvatore.
His voice spilled from the recording "Handle this. Quietly. I don't want his name spoken again."
Marcus turned to the jurors. "The man he refers to is Father Andrew Calder—a priest who tried to expose the Moretti family's financial dealings through the church's charity accounts. Three days after that conversation, father Andrew was shot multiple times in his chest outside Moretti Homes, and died on the spot."
He let the words settle.
Then the next images on the clips flickered. Michael Salvatore meeting two well-known contract killers in an empty parking lot, cash exchange.
"I know what some of you might be thinking. That this could be anything but that murder."
He turned and clicked, the next clip rolled.
It was a camera set up in a small dark room, squarely facing Michael Salvatore, his voice husky and shaking. "They wouldn't the take the five million as only down payment. They said a visual confirmation was needed or the the job wasn't going through. I knew Vincent was trying to use me as scapegoat, I was the one took half a million dollars in person to those killers. I am telling you he ordered me to pay off Father Andrew's killers, he threatened to hurt my family if I didn't"
The clip elapsed and the projection was turned off. Marcus faced the jurors squarely, the moral gravity of his words measured and deliberate.
"The evidence will show that Vincent Moretti ordered that killing. Not with his hands but with his will. And under our law, commanding another to commit murder is just as guilty as the one who pulled the trigger"
He didn't shout, he didn't need too. The jurors ate his words like an appetizer and their eyes glued to the photograph of Vincent before them.
When Marcus had delivered his closing statement, the jurors were escorted to deliberate in private. Fifteen minutes later the foreperson returned with news that sealed Vincent's fate:
"We find probable cause to indict on the charge of murder in the first degree, and conspiracy to commit murder"
Marcus Lee nodded once, his face quiet and grave. The work of weeks had come to this—a single decision and the beginning of a trial that would shake the city, and he was going to be known as the man who broke the name Moretti.
He pulled his phone and dialed a number. Dempsey's voice echoed from the other end "You lying piece of ass" Marcus laughed at the sound of first defeat. "I'd warn you to prepare your client for court, because he'll be going up that stand sooner than he anticipated."
***
From the time length of that evening to the next morning, the news hit like a bomb, the dailies crawled with it on front pages, the internet was flooded, VINCENT MORETTI, REAL ESTATE BILLIONAIRE CHARGED WITH THE MURDER OF PRIEST.
This shouldn't have been a day to follow the night he had with Jennifer but fate had a thing for raining on his parade. He took the news like a hard pill, one he saw coming and had to deal with. Dempsey had called and said a pretrial suppression hearing was in order and he would be appearing before a judge to plead his case before trial.
Now he sat in the darkness of the sedan as it drove toward the court downtown. His heart wanted to feel the betrayal but his mind won't let it, instead it nodded to the move, once again be had been blinded sided, and the two people who had worked with and for him just turned on him. So this is why Vivian was acting strange? The DA had pressed her to confess and she sold him out.
"It's okay to be okay Vincent" Dempsey said from the passenger's seat. Carlos drove the sedan, he saw Vincent's face from the rear view mirror, it didn't look like the man cared whether it was alright or not, he was just reeling in the cold waters of betrayal.
The crowd waiting outside the court was tremendous. People carried fliers with the word 'MURDERER' painted in red on it, journalist pressed forward eager to write stories for the papers, reporters circled them. The police led the company up into the building, leaving the chaos outside.
The courtroom was still, the air faintly humming with the weight of waiting.
Vincent Moretti sat beside his attorney, Dempsey Shaw, at the defense table — perfectly composed, though his cuffed hands trembled once before he stilled them on his lap.
At the opposite table, District Attorney Marcus Lee stacked his folders with the precision of a man sharpening a blade.
He'd built this case from dust and secrets; now one motion could decide whether it lived or died.
The clerk called,
"State of California versus Vincent Moretti, pretrial motion to suppress prosecution Exhibit A."
Judge Helen Carradine adjusted her glasses.
"Counselors, you may proceed."
Dempsey rose. He stood slowly, adjusting his tie as though aligning every word in his mind. His voice was calm — deliberate.
"Your Honor, we move to suppress what the State has labeled Exhibit A — the so-called surveillance recording that Mr. Lee claims shows my client ordering a priest's murder."
He turned toward the screen that stood blank at the side of the room.
"That video is not proof of anything. It's a trap laid with a crooked hand."
The judge's brow arched slightly.
"Mr. Shaw, foundation?"
"Gladly," Dempsey said. He stepped toward the jury box — empty now, since this was a hearing, not a trial — but he spoke as if the ghosts of jurors already sat there, waiting to be convinced.
"The State claims this footage was recovered from a restaurant's security system. Yet the system's owner swore in deposition that his drives were seized without a signed warrant. The time code? Missing.
The file's metadata? Altered. And the so-called forensic chain of custody?"
He snapped open a folder.
"It jumps. First in the possession of Detective Han, then somehow re-entered by a civilian 'consultant' named Donnelly, who—according to his own LinkedIn—works for Michael Salvatore's security firm. The very man who benefits if my client goes to prison."
He paused.
"We are not asking this court for mercy. We are asking for justice not tainted by fabrication."
Marcus rose, smooth and precise.
"Your Honor, defense counsel's theatrics aside, the evidence was collected under exigent circumstances. The restaurant owner voluntarily surrendered the drives when shown a warrant in progress. The digital anomalies Mr. Shaw describes are routine compression artifacts."
He turned, addressing the court with quiet confidence.
"And as for Mr. Donnelly — yes, he works as an outside contractor. But chain of custody was preserved through logged transfers. Defense's accusations of tampering are speculative."
He looked directly at Vincent.
"The tape speaks for itself."
At the judge's nod, the bailiff dimmed the lights.
The screen came alive: the grainy image of a restaurant booth, two men seated close.
Vincent's profile visible, calm and unreadable.
VINCENT (recorded): "Handle it. Quietly. I don't want his name spoken again."
Marcus stopped the video.
"That, Your Honor, is the defendant giving a direct order concerning Father Andrew Calder."
Dempsey's voice cut through the dark.
"Play the rest."
Marcus hesitated.
"That's the relevant segment."
"Play. The. Rest."
Judge Carradine lifted her chin.
"Mr. Lee, humor counsel. Continue the recording."
The clip rolled on.
A few seconds of static — then the missing audio bloomed faintly into the speakers.
VINCENT (recorded): "…he's a priest, for God's sake. Pay what's owed and end it. Quietly, I said — not violently."
The courtroom went utterly still.
Marcus froze. The faintest shift crossed his face — disbelief or fury, even he didn't know which.
Dempsey pressed.
"Your Honor, that silence you heard earlier — the so-called 'cut' — exists because the original file was trimmed before police logged it. We obtained the unedited copy yesterday from an off-site backup on the restaurant's cloud server.
The State's version was doctored.
My client never ordered a murder — he ordered restitution."
He turned toward the bench.
"This recording has been the spine of the prosecution's case. Remove it, and what's left? Rumor and ambition."
Marcus regained his footing.
"Your Honor, defense counsel has just introduced evidence outside of discovery protocol—"
"Correction," Dempsey cut in. "We're introducing proof that your office presented manipulated material to a grand jury."
The judge struck her gavel once.
"Enough. I will not have cross-accusations of misconduct shouted across my courtroom."
Silence. Then Carradine leaned forward.
"Mr. Lee, can the State verify the integrity of its exhibit?"
Marcus's jaw tightened.
"Not until we examine the defense's claimed original, Your Honor."
"Then examine it," the judge said. "Right here. Right now."
The clerk loaded both versions side by side.
Frame by frame, the difference became undeniable — a hard cut, seven seconds missing.
Judge Carradine spoke softly, almost regretful.
"The motion to suppress is granted. The State's video evidence is excluded pending forensic review.
And I am ordering an internal inquiry into how altered material reached a grand jury presentation."
Marcus lowered his gaze, expression unreadable. Dempsey exhaled — a slow, silent release, like air from a wound.
As the courtroom emptied, Marcus approached Dempsey in the aisle, voice low.
"Enjoy your victory. It won't last."
"Maybe," Dempsey said. "But today you learned the difference between evidence and illusion."
He turned, guiding Vincent toward the exit. Outside, cameras flashed like gunfire in the rain.
For the first time since his arrest, Vincent Moretti lifted his eyes to the sky — this was the making of the Moretti legacy.