Appealed
Page 50
“So you gave it a shot? You attempted to hack into their online banking system.”
His eyes jump to the jury, but then he admits, “Well . . . yeah. It was a challenge. Like the final boss level in a game.”
He explains how he went at it for three sleepless days, fueled by Monster drinks and Hostess Twinkies.
“And then?” I ask.
And he can’t keep the smile off his young face. “I was in. I couldn’t believe it at first, but it was right in front of me. The accounts were all there.”
“What did you do then? Hop on the message boards to tell the boys the big news?”
Justin’s brows draw together. “No. I didn’t tell anybody. For a while I just wandered around, checked things out. I kept expecting to get booted out when they realized I was there.” His voice goes soft. Almost sad. “But no one . . . no one saw me.”
“What happened next?”
“I set up my own account. A dummy account.”
I lean back against the defense table. “Why?”
“To see if anyone would notice.”
“And did they, Justin? Did anyone notice you?”
His head shakes infinitesimally. “No.”
Softly, I ask, “What did you do next?”
And here’s the gamble. The risk. Justin’s and mine, because he’s essentially confessing his guilt.
“It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“What didn’t you mean to do, Justin?”
He takes a deep breath. “I took a penny from an account.”
The corner of my mouth quirks. “A penny?”
He nods. “Yes. And then I waited twenty-four hours. To see . . .”
“To see if anyone would notice you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they?”
He answers so quietly, the court reporter has him repeat his response.
“No.”
“Then what happened, Justin?”
He stares at the microphone in front of him. “I took a hundred pennies. One each from a hundred different accounts.”
I peek at the jury. Eight women, all mothers; six men, four fathers, two uncles. Twelve of them will decide Justin’s fate, the remaining two are alternates. And every single one of them has their full attention focused on Justin. Watching his every move, hearing his every word. Noticing every nuance, just like I hoped they would. Not one of them looks pissed; their expressions range from curiosity to interest . . . to sympathy.
Perfect.
I choose my words deliberately. “And did anyone see you then, Justin?”
“No.”
“So what did you do?”
He pauses, looks at me for guidance. And I nod.
“It’s fuzzy . . . I don’t remember the order exactly, but . . . I went back in. And I took more money from the accounts.”
“Did you have plans to spend the money? A weekend in Aspen? A party at a swanky hotel?”
He flinches. “No. I wasn’t going to do anything with the money.”
“Then why did you take it?”
He shakes his head, looking truly bewildered. Lost—like the young boy he still is.
“I . . . I don’t know. It was just . . . an accident. I didn’t want any of this to happen.”
I let the words hang for several moments. A meaningful pause. Then I walk back behind the defense table. “No more questions for the moment, Your Honor.” I look to Kennedy. “He’s all yours, Miss Randolph.”
She doesn’t spare me a glance; her razor-sharp gaze is fully centered on Justin. Like a predator with a wounded gazelle just steps away.
“Miss Randolph,” the judge directs. “Proceed.”
And Kennedy can’t charge forward fast enough. Her voice is almost unrecognizable. Sharp and clipped—slicing the air.
“It was an accident? Did I hear that correctly? You stole $2.3 million from the retirement accounts of a dozen innocent, hardworking victims, by accident?”
Kennedy’s choosing her words carefully too. Both of us trying to paint the picture for the jury we want them to see.
Justin blinks. “Yes.”
Kennedy paces in front of him, looking aggressive, dangerous. If this wasn’t such a pivotal moment, I’d definitely have a boner.
“How long did this ‘accident’ take you?” She asks.
“I . . . I don’t remember.”
“Longer than five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Longer than ten?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“An hour?”
Justin fidgets. “An hour sounds right. It probably took that long.”
She nods. “An accident, Mr. Longhorn, is an unfortunate, unforeseen event. Like when someone trips and falls on the sidewalk. Do you know the difference between your actions and falling on the sidewalk?”
Justin’s panicked eyes dart to me. “What?”
“It doesn’t take an hour to fall. That amount of time requires thought—deliberate, purposeful action.”
She crosses her arms and changes tactics, like a boxer switching from a left hook to an uppercut. “Two point three million dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Longhorn.”
His head nods hesitantly. “I guess.”
“What could one do with $2.3 million?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Almost anything, I guess.”
Kennedy’s finger jabs at Justin. “That’s right. Almost anything. That kind of money buys freedom. Power. And you wanted that power, didn’t you?”
His eyes jump to the jury, but then he admits, “Well . . . yeah. It was a challenge. Like the final boss level in a game.”
He explains how he went at it for three sleepless days, fueled by Monster drinks and Hostess Twinkies.
“And then?” I ask.
And he can’t keep the smile off his young face. “I was in. I couldn’t believe it at first, but it was right in front of me. The accounts were all there.”
“What did you do then? Hop on the message boards to tell the boys the big news?”
Justin’s brows draw together. “No. I didn’t tell anybody. For a while I just wandered around, checked things out. I kept expecting to get booted out when they realized I was there.” His voice goes soft. Almost sad. “But no one . . . no one saw me.”
“What happened next?”
“I set up my own account. A dummy account.”
I lean back against the defense table. “Why?”
“To see if anyone would notice.”
“And did they, Justin? Did anyone notice you?”
His head shakes infinitesimally. “No.”
Softly, I ask, “What did you do next?”
And here’s the gamble. The risk. Justin’s and mine, because he’s essentially confessing his guilt.
“It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“What didn’t you mean to do, Justin?”
He takes a deep breath. “I took a penny from an account.”
The corner of my mouth quirks. “A penny?”
He nods. “Yes. And then I waited twenty-four hours. To see . . .”
“To see if anyone would notice you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they?”
He answers so quietly, the court reporter has him repeat his response.
“No.”
“Then what happened, Justin?”
He stares at the microphone in front of him. “I took a hundred pennies. One each from a hundred different accounts.”
I peek at the jury. Eight women, all mothers; six men, four fathers, two uncles. Twelve of them will decide Justin’s fate, the remaining two are alternates. And every single one of them has their full attention focused on Justin. Watching his every move, hearing his every word. Noticing every nuance, just like I hoped they would. Not one of them looks pissed; their expressions range from curiosity to interest . . . to sympathy.
Perfect.
I choose my words deliberately. “And did anyone see you then, Justin?”
“No.”
“So what did you do?”
He pauses, looks at me for guidance. And I nod.
“It’s fuzzy . . . I don’t remember the order exactly, but . . . I went back in. And I took more money from the accounts.”
“Did you have plans to spend the money? A weekend in Aspen? A party at a swanky hotel?”
He flinches. “No. I wasn’t going to do anything with the money.”
“Then why did you take it?”
He shakes his head, looking truly bewildered. Lost—like the young boy he still is.
“I . . . I don’t know. It was just . . . an accident. I didn’t want any of this to happen.”
I let the words hang for several moments. A meaningful pause. Then I walk back behind the defense table. “No more questions for the moment, Your Honor.” I look to Kennedy. “He’s all yours, Miss Randolph.”
She doesn’t spare me a glance; her razor-sharp gaze is fully centered on Justin. Like a predator with a wounded gazelle just steps away.
“Miss Randolph,” the judge directs. “Proceed.”
And Kennedy can’t charge forward fast enough. Her voice is almost unrecognizable. Sharp and clipped—slicing the air.
“It was an accident? Did I hear that correctly? You stole $2.3 million from the retirement accounts of a dozen innocent, hardworking victims, by accident?”
Kennedy’s choosing her words carefully too. Both of us trying to paint the picture for the jury we want them to see.
Justin blinks. “Yes.”
Kennedy paces in front of him, looking aggressive, dangerous. If this wasn’t such a pivotal moment, I’d definitely have a boner.
“How long did this ‘accident’ take you?” She asks.
“I . . . I don’t remember.”
“Longer than five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Longer than ten?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“An hour?”
Justin fidgets. “An hour sounds right. It probably took that long.”
She nods. “An accident, Mr. Longhorn, is an unfortunate, unforeseen event. Like when someone trips and falls on the sidewalk. Do you know the difference between your actions and falling on the sidewalk?”
Justin’s panicked eyes dart to me. “What?”
“It doesn’t take an hour to fall. That amount of time requires thought—deliberate, purposeful action.”
She crosses her arms and changes tactics, like a boxer switching from a left hook to an uppercut. “Two point three million dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Longhorn.”
His head nods hesitantly. “I guess.”
“What could one do with $2.3 million?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Almost anything, I guess.”
Kennedy’s finger jabs at Justin. “That’s right. Almost anything. That kind of money buys freedom. Power. And you wanted that power, didn’t you?”
