The suit hangs on the back of the cell door.
Black. Tailored. Pressed.
Jack stares at it for a moment before reaching for the shirt.
White cotton. Crisp.
He buttons it slowly.
One button at a time.
The fabric feels foreign against his skin after days in prison-issue orange.
This is armor.
Jack slides his arms into the jacket. The weight settles across his shoulders.
Familiar.
Grounding.
He adjusts the collar.
Fastens the cufflinks—simple silver, nothing flashy.
Each movement is deliberate.
Methodical.
Control the appearance. Control the narrative.
Calloway stands near the bars, watching.
His briefcase rests at his feet.
His expression is tight.
Worried.
"I'm not going to lie to you, Jack," Calloway says quietly. "I'm not confident we'll win today."
Jack doesn't respond.
He straightens his tie in the small mirror bolted to the wall.
"But," Calloway continues, "I believe I can at least get you out of detention."
There's a pause.
A slight hesitation in his voice.
Calloway doesn't sound like a man fully in control.
Jack meets his eyes in the mirror's reflection.
"That's all I need," Jack says.
Calloway nods, but the worry doesn't leave his face.
Jack turns from the mirror.
He looks down at himself.
The suit fits perfectly.
***
The hallway smells like bleach and sweat.
Jack walks between two officers, his wrists cuffed in front of him.
The metal bites into his skin.
His shoes—polished black leather—click against the linoleum.
The sound echoes.
Sharp.
Rhythmic.
They reach the exit.
The door swings open.
And the world explodes.
Camera flashes.
Blinding white light.
Voices shouting over each other.
"Jack! Jack Morris!"
"Did you order the hit on ...?"
"Are you guilty?"
"Jack! Look here!"
The officers push forward, forming a barrier.
Jack keeps his head up.
His expression neutral.
He doesn't look at the cameras.
Doesn't acknowledge the reporters.
Let them see what they want to see.
A king. A criminal. A monster.
It doesn't matter.
The van is waiting.
The officers guide him inside.
The door slams shut.
And the noise cuts off.
Silence.
Jack leans back against the seat.
His heart is steady.
His breathing calm.
***
The courtroom is packed.
Jack notices it immediately as the officers escort him through the side entrance.
Every seat is filled.
People stand along the back wall.
The air is thick.
Heavy with anticipation.
Jack scans the room as he walks toward the defense table.
His eyes move quickly.
Efficiently.
Clients.
He recognizes a few faces.
Men he's done business with.
Women who've worked at King's Paradise.
Underworld partners.
There—near the middle.
A man in a dark suit.
One of Steely's crew.
And there—closer to the front.
A woman Jack sold information to six months ago.
Loyal underlings.
Chip isn't here—he's too smart for that.
But others are.
Faces Jack has seen in the basement meetings.
Men who've taken orders.
Who've carried out jobs.
Crime bosses.
Jack's eyes land on a man in the back corner.
Older. Gray hair. Expensive watch.
A boss from the east side.
Someone Jack has never worked with directly.
But someone who's been watching.
This isn't just a trial.
This is a public weighing of power.
They're here to see if I fall.
Jack reaches the defense table.
Calloway is already seated, papers spread out in front of him.
Jack sits.
The officers remove his cuffs.
Jack rubs his wrists, his eyes still scanning.
Hela.
She's in the third row.
Her face is pale.
Her hands folded in her lap.
She's not looking at him.
Markus.
Right beside Hela.
He's staring straight ahead.
His jaw tight.
His expression unreadable.
Bones.
Jack's eyes stop.
Bones is near the back.
His leg is shaking.
His hands grip the edge of the bench.
And he's not looking at Jack.
He's looking toward the prosecution's side.
Jack's jaw tightens.
What the fuck?
He doesn't react outwardly.
Doesn't let it show.
But he locks that detail away.
Something is wrong with Bones.
Jack's eyes move again.
Searching.
Bella.
She's not here.
Jack scans the room twice more.
Just to be sure.
But no.
She's not here.
That absence hits harder than anything else.
Jack's chest tightens.
But he forces it down.
Focus.
He turns his attention forward.
The judge's bench is elevated.
Imposing.
The judge—an older woman with sharp eyes and silver hair pulled back tight—sits with her hands folded.
Judge Harlow.
Jack remembers her from the bail hearing.
She looks unimpressed.
Her gaze sweeps the courtroom like she's already tired of this.
Jack shifts his attention to the jury box.
Twelve people.
Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
But Jack reads them immediately.
One juror—a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt—stares at Jack's tattoos.
The ink on his hands.
His neck.
The man's expression is a mix of fascination and disgust.
Another juror—a woman in her fifties—avoids looking at Jack entirely.
Her eyes stay fixed on the table in front of her.
Two jurors near the back whisper to each other.
One leans in.
Says something.
The other nods.
Jack can read it clearly.
They've already decided what I am.
Guilty.
Dangerous.
A criminal.
Jack's hands rest on the table.
***
The prosecutor stands.
A woman.
Mid-forties.
Sharp suit. Dark hair.
Her name is Mercer.
Jack remembers her from the arraignment.
She's confident.
Composed.
Almost too composed.
She walks to the center of the courtroom, her heels clicking against the floor.
"Your Honor," she begins, her voice clear and strong. "The state will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Jack Morris is the head of a criminal enterprise operating under the guise of legitimate business."
She pauses.
Lets the words settle.
"Over the past fifteen months, Mr. Morris has orchestrated a network of illegal activities including organized crime operations, violence, prostitution, and murder."
Her tone is matter-of-fact.
Like she's reading a grocery list.
"He has used his club, King's Paradise, as a front for these operations. He has intimidated witnesses. Destroyed evidence. And built an empire on fear and exploitation."
She turns slightly, her eyes landing on Jack.
"The state will show that Jack Morris is not a businessman. He is a criminal. And he must be held accountable."
She sits.
The courtroom is silent.
Jack watches her.
No rush.
No over-explaining.
No visible pressure.
She's holding something back.
Jack can feel it.
What are you waiting for?
***
Calloway stands.
He adjusts his tie.
Clears his throat.
"Your Honor, members of the jury," he begins. "The prosecution would have you believe that my client is some kind of criminal mastermind. A puppet master pulling strings from the shadows."
He pauses.
"But where is the evidence?"
Calloway walks toward the jury box, his hands open.
"The prosecution talks about organized crime. About violence. About murder. But they have provided no direct evidence linking my client to any of these activities."
He gestures toward Jack.
"Jack Morris is a businessman. He owns a nightclub. He employs people. He contributes to his community. Yes, he has influence. Yes, he knows people. But influence is not a crime."
Calloway's voice is steady.
Controlled.
"The prosecution wants you to make assumptions. They want you to fill in the blanks with speculation and fear. But assumptions are not proof. Speculation is not evidence."
He turns back to the judge.
"The defense will show that the state's case is built on nothing more than hearsay and conjecture. And we will prove that Jack Morris is innocent."
Calloway sits.
Jack glances at him.
He did well.
Maybe too well.
Jack's eyes shift to the prosecution table.
Mercer is sitting calmly.
She didn't object once.
Didn't interrupt.
She just let Calloway speak.
Why?
Jack's jaw tightens.
Because she doesn't need to.
She's got something.
***
Mercer stands again.
"Your Honor," she says, "the state would like to call its first witness."
Judge Harlow nods. "Proceed."
Mercer turns toward the courtroom.
"The state calls Marcus Whitmore to the stand."
The room shifts.
Whispers ripple through the crowd.
Jack's eyes lock onto Marcus.
Marcus stands slowly.
His face is pale.
His hands tremble slightly as he walks toward the witness stand.
Jack watches him. Cold. Calculating.
He shakes his head. Traitor. Rat.
You're already dead.
You just don't know it yet.
Marcus is sworn in.
He sits.
His eyes flick toward Jack once.
Just once.
Then he looks away.
Mercer approaches.
"Mr. Whitmore," she says, "can you tell the court how you know Jack Morris?"
Marcus clears his throat.
"I... I did business with him."
"What kind of business?"
Marcus hesitates.
"He sold me... women. Prostitutes. Through his club."
The courtroom erupts in whispers.
Judge Harlow bangs her gavel.
"Order."
Jack scoffs. Not only a rat, but a lier too. What do they have on you?
Mercer continues.
"And did Mr. Morris provide any other services?"
Marcus nods.
"He handled jobs for me. Violent jobs."
"Can you elaborate?"
"He... he had people beaten. Killed. Anyone I needed dealt with."
Mercer lets the words hang.
"And do you have proof of this?"
Marcus shakes his head.
"No. He's too smart for that. He destroys everything."
Mercer nods.
"Thank you, Mr. Whitmore."
She sits.
Jack's expression doesn't change.
But inside, his mind is racing.
Damaging.
But not fatal.
Not yet.
***
Calloway stands.
He approaches Marcus slowly.
"Mr. Whitmore," he says, "you claim that Mr. Morris sold you prostitutes through King's Paradise."
"Yes."
"And yet, when law enforcement searched King's Paradise, they found no evidence of prostitution. No victims came forward. No financial records. No communication records. Nothing."
Marcus shifts in his seat.
"He destroys evidence."
"Or," Calloway says, "there is no evidence because your claims are false."
Marcus's jaw tightens.
"People are too afraid to speak."
Calloway raises an eyebrow.
"Afraid of a man who is known in Southside for helping his community? For employing people? For supporting local businesses?"
He turns to the jury.
"Why would people fear someone who supports them?"
Marcus doesn't answer.
Calloway presses.
"Isn't it true, Mr. Whitmore, that you're testifying here today not because Mr. Morris is guilty, but because you want to eliminate a business rival?"
"No," Marcus says quickly. "That's not—"
"You've been trying to expand into Southside for months," Calloway continues. "And Mr. Morris has been in your way. Isn't that right?"
Marcus's face flushes.
"That has nothing to do with—"
"Thank you, Mr. Whitmore," Calloway says. "No further questions."
He sits.
Jack glances at the jury.
They're shifting.
Whispering.
Momentum is in my favor.
But then Jack's eyes move to Mercer.
She's sitting calmly.
Not worried.
Not frustrated.
She's letting this happen.
Mercer stands.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"Your Honor," she says, "the state would like to call one more witness."
Judge Harlow nods.
Mercer turns to the courtroom.
Her eyes land on Jack.
And she smiles.
Just slightly.
"The state calls Jack Morris to the stand."
The courtroom goes silent.
Jack's heart skips.
Just once.
Calloway leans in immediately.
"Don't," he whispers urgently. "Jack, don't do this. It's too risky. We don't need—"
"If I don't," Jack says quietly, "I look guilty."
"You look cautious," Calloway hisses. "That's not the same thing."
Jack's eyes scan the room.
Marcus is staring at the floor.
Mercer is watching him.
Waiting.
If they had something real, they would've used it already.
This is a bluff.
It has to be.
Jack stands.
"I'll testify," he says.
Calloway grabs his arm.
"Jack—"
Jack pulls free.
He walks toward the witness stand.
The room is silent.
Every eye is on him.
Jack is sworn in.
He sits.
His hands rest on the armrests.
Steady.
Calm.
Mercer approaches.
She's smiling.
"Mr. Morris," she says, "thank you for agreeing to testify."
Jack doesn't respond.
Mercer's smile widens.
"Let's begin."