Mercer stands at the center of the courtroom.
Her hands are clasped loosely in front of her.
Relaxed.
Patient.
"Mr. Morris," she says, "can you state your full name for the record?"
"Jack Morris."
"And you're a businessman, correct?"
Jack nods. "Yes."
"What kind of businesses do you operate?"
"I own a nightclub," Jack says. "King's Paradise. I also have investments in real estate and hospitality."
Mercer nods slowly.
"Would you say you're successful?"
"I've done well for myself."
"And you've built a reputation in Southside, haven't you?"
Jack's jaw tightens slightly.
"I suppose."
"A reputation as someone who... gets things done?"
Jack hesitates. Careful.
"I'm good at what I do," he says.
Mercer smiles faintly.
"You don't engage in violence, do you, Mr. Morris?"
"No."
"You don't run a criminal organization?"
"No."
"You're just a businessman."
"Yes."
Mercer nods.
She walks slowly toward the jury box.
"Thank you for clarifying that," she says.
Jack exhales slowly and looks towards the jury.
The older woman with the glasses is watching him.
Her expression is neutral.
The man in the back row—mid-forties, arms crossed—looks skeptical.
But not hostile.
Not yet.
Mercer turns back to Jack.
"Let's talk about your associates," she says.
Jack's hands tighten slightly on the armrests.
"You employ several people, correct?"
"Yes."
"Can you tell the court who some of those people are?"
Jack hesitates.
"I have staff at the club. Bartenders. Security. Managers."
"What about Bones?"
Jack's throat tightens.
"He works security."
"And Steely?"
"Same."
"And the man known as Chip?"
"Yes."
Mercer nods slowly.
"These men work for you, correct?"
"They work at the club."
"But you pay them."
"Yes."
"And they report to you."
Jack's jaw clenches.
"They're independent contractors," he says. "They handle their own—"
"Yes or no, Mr. Morris," Mercer interrupts. "Do they report to you?"
Jack hesitates.
"In a sense."
"In a sense," Mercer repeats. "So they take orders from you?"
"I give them direction when necessary."
"Direction," Mercer says. "Like telling them where to go? What to do?"
Jack's hands are trembling slightly.
He forces them still.
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?"
Jack doesn't answer.
Mercer lets the silence sit.
The jury is leaning forward now.
The older woman writes something down.
The skeptical man's arms are still crossed.
But his expression has shifted.
He's listening.
Mercer walks back to her table.
She picks up a folder.
"Mr. Morris," she says, "Do you know the notorious convicted murderer, Paul Welser. He was convicted of over 3 murders four months ago."
Jack's stomach drops.
"I know of him."
"You don't have a relationship with him?"
"No."
Mercer opens the folder.
"That's funny because in a plea deal with the police he said that you were the one who ordered the hits. Your Honor, I'd like to introduce Exhibit 12."
Judge Harlow nods.
A screen descends from the ceiling.
Phone records appear.
Large.
Clear.
Impossible to miss.
Mercer points to the screen.
"These are phone records from your cell phone, Mr. Morris," she says. "Over the past six months."
She taps the screen.
A number is highlighted.
"This number belongs to Paul," Mercer says. "According to these records, you called him seventeen times a month before his prosecution."
Jack's throat tightens.
"I—"
"And he called you twenty-three times," Mercer continues. "Including several calls after midnight."
She turns to Jack.
"So which is it, Mr. Morris? You don't know him... or you speak to him regularly?"
The courtroom erupts in whispers.
Judge Harlow bangs her gavel.
"Order."
Jack's mind is racing.
Fuck.
"I may have spoken to him a few times," Jack says. "But that doesn't mean—"
"A few times?" Mercer interrupts. "Forty calls in a month is 'a few times'?"
Jack doesn't answer.
The jury is staring at him.
The older woman's expression has hardened.
The skeptical man is leaning forward now.
Mercer walks back to her table.
She picks up another folder.
"Let's talk about your organization," she says.
Jack's jaw clenches.
"I don't have an organization."
"No?" Mercer opens the folder. "Let me walk you through something."
She turns to the jury.
"Bones handles enforcement," she says. "He's the muscle. When someone needs to be... persuaded, Bones takes care of it."
She pauses.
"Steely handles logistics. Transportation. Making sure things move smoothly."
Another pause.
"Chip is the ace in the hole. Used for specialized dealings."
She turns back to Jack.
"And they all report to you, don't they?"
Jack's hands are trembling.
"That's not—"
"Yes or no, Mr. Morris."
"It's not that simple."
"Yes or no."
Jack's throat is tight.
"They work for me," he says quietly. "But I don't control—"
"They work for you," Mercer repeats. "They take orders from you. They carry out tasks on your behalf."
She steps closer.
"That sounds like an organization to me."
The courtroom is silent.
The jury is watching.
The older woman's mouth is a thin line.
The skeptical man is nodding slightly.
They're seeing it.
They're seeing what she wants them to see.
Mercer walks back to her table.
She picks up a stack of papers.
"Mr. Morris," she says, "over the past few weeks, we've taken testimony from several individuals who were involved in your... business operations."
Jack's stomach drops.
"Ten people, to be exact," Mercer continues. "All of them have testified—under oath—that you were the main perpetrator of sex trafficking, drug trafficking, and human trafficking."
She sets the papers down.
"Ten people," she repeats. "All saying the same thing."
She turns to Jack.
"Are you saying that if I put them all on the stand, they would be lying?"
Jack's mind is racing.
Say yes, and I look paranoid.
Say no, and I admit guilt.
"I—"
"Yes or no, Mr. Morris."
Jack's jaw clenches.
"They're mistaken," he says.
"Mistaken," Mercer repeats. "All ten of them?"
"Yes."
Mercer nods slowly.
"Or maybe," she says, "they're telling the truth."
She walks back to her table.
The jury is watching.
The older woman is writing again.
The skeptical man's arms are uncrossed now.
He's leaning forward.
Mercer picks up another folder.
"Let's talk about money," she says.
Jack's throat tightens.
"What about it?"
"You reported an income of $200,000 last year, correct?"
"Yes."
"And yet," Mercer says, opening the folder, "you spent over $1.2 million."
She turns to Jack.
"Can you explain that?"
Jack's mind is racing.
"Investments," he says. "Loans. Business deals."
"Investments," Mercer repeats. "Can you provide documentation for those investments?"
Jack hesitates.
"Some of them."
"Some of them," Mercer says. "What about the rest?"
"They were... private transactions."
"Private transactions," Mercer repeats. "Meaning no paper trail?"
Jack doesn't answer.
Mercer walks toward the jury.
"Mr. Morris reported $200,000 in income," she says. "But he spent over a million dollars. And he can't explain where that money came from."
She turns back to Jack.
"Yes or no, Mr. Morris. Did that money come from illegal activities?"
Jack's jaw clenches.
"No."
"Then where did it come from?"
"I told you. Investments. Loans."
Mercer nods slowly.
She doesn't believe him.
And neither does the jury.
Mercer walks back to her table.
She picks up a tablet.
"Let's talk about consequences," she says.
Jack's stomach drops.
"What do you mean?"
"Violence," Mercer says. "Tied to your organization. Businesses destroyed. People hurt."
She taps the tablet.
The screen lights up again.
"Is it true," Mercer says, "that you and your ex-girlfriend, Bella Crane, formerly Bella Chen, broke up because of your violent ways?"
Jack's blood runs cold.
"No."
"No?" Mercer taps the tablet again.
Text messages appear on the screen.
Large.
Clear.
Impossible to miss.
Jack's heart stops.
"You're scaring me, Jack. I don't know who you are anymore."
"I'm scared of you. I'm scared FOR you. You're going to get yourself killed. "
"I can't do this anymore. I can't watch you destroy turn into...this."
Jack's hands grip the armrests.
How—
How did they—
Mercer swipes.
Another message appears.
"You're not the man I fell in love with. You're someone else now. Someone dangerous."
Jack's throat is tight.
I deleted those.
I deleted all of them.
Mercer turns to Jack.
"These messages," she says, "were sent between you and Ms. Crane four to five months ago."
She pauses.
"They paint a picture of a man who was becoming increasingly violent. Increasingly dangerous."
Jack's jaw clenches.
"I've never seen those messages," he says.
Mercer's eyebrows raise.
"You've never seen them?"
"No."
"So you're saying they're forged?"
Jack hesitates.
"They must have been hacked," Jack says. "Or fabricated. I don't know."
Mercer nods slowly.
"Or," she says, "they're real. And you're lying."
The courtroom is silent.
The jury is staring at Jack.
The older woman's expression is hard.
The skeptical man is shaking his head slightly.
They don't believe me.
They think I'm lying.
Jack's mind is racing.
Bella.
Did she give them the messages.
Did she betray me.
No. She wouldn't.
Mercer walks closer.
"Do you feel responsible, Mr. Morris?" she asks. "For what happened to your victims?"
Jack's jaw clenches.
"I don't have victims."
"You don't?"
"No."
Mercer nods slowly.
"We'll see about that."
She walks back to her table.
Jack's breathing is shallow.
Stay calm.
Stay controlled.
But his hands are trembling.
And the jury sees it.
Mercer picks up the tablet again.
"Mr. Morris," she says, "you've testified that you don't engage in violence. That you don't run a criminal organization. That you're just a businessman."
She pauses.
"But the evidence tells a different story."
She taps the tablet.
"You've contradicted yourself multiple times. You've been caught in lies. And you can't explain where your money came from."
She turns to Jack.
"So let me ask you this. Were you lying then... or are you lying now?"
The courtroom is silent.
Jack's throat is tight.
Say something.
Anything.
But his mind is blank.
Mercer lets the silence sit.
Then she taps the tablet again.
The screen goes black.
Then a voice fills the courtroom.
Jack's voice.
"...the thing about leverage is you have to be willing to use it. Willing to hurt people. Permanently, if necessary."
Jack's blood runs cold.
What the fuck—
The voice continues.
"...he'll never leave me. Because she knows what happens if she does."
Laughter.
Cold.
Deliberate.
"...I'm good at this. Making people understand who owns them. It's not complicated. It's just about consistency. And the willingness to follow through."
The recording ends.
The courtroom is silent.
Dead silent.
Jack's heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears.
It was him.
His tone, the way he spoke, the confidence, the cruelty. It was all different, the past him, the one still climbing. But it was him.
Undoubtedly.
Mercer turns to Jack.
"Is that your voice, Mr. Morris?"
"No."
"No?"
"That's not me."
Mercer's eyebrows raise.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You're absolutely certain that's not your voice?"
Jack's jaw clenches.
"Yes."
He had no idea where they got these recordings, but he was confident they could not prove it was him behind them.
Mercer nods slowly.
She turns to the jury.
"No further questions," she says.
She sits down.
The courtroom is silent.
Jack's breathing is shallow.
He glances at the jury.
The older woman with the glasses is staring at him.
Her expression is soft.
Pitying.
The skeptical man is shaking his head.
The woman in the front row—mid-thirties, blonde—has her arms crossed.
Her mouth is a thin line.
This is bad.
Jack's hands are trembling.
He forces them still.
But it's too late.
Judge Harlow looks at Calloway.
"Does the defense wish to redirect?"
Calloway stands slowly.
"Yes, Your Honor," he says quietl