The church fell into that painful silence that only exists at funerals. Then the doors burst open. High heels clicked on marble, followed by laughter. My son-in-law Ethan strolled down the aisle in a flawless suit, smiling, with a younger woman in a bright crimson dress wrapped around his arm.

The county jail was a grim, concrete fortress built on the outskirts of the county, far away from the polished glass towers of the financial district.

Inside the visitors' block, the smell of bleach, cheap floor wax, and stale sweat hung thick in the air.

Ethan sat on a cold plastic chair behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass. His six-thousand-dollar suit had been replaced by an oversized orange jumpsuit that hung loosely off his broad shoulders. His dark hair was messy, unwashed, and his eyes were bloodshot, ringed with deep grey shadows.

Across from him sat Richard Sterling, a high-priced defense attorney with slicked-back white hair and a golden signet ring on his pinky finger.

“You’re not listening to me, Ethan!” Sterling hissed into the plastic phone receiver, pressing his forehead against the glass. “The video footage isn't just bad—it’s fatal. It shows you pushing her against the bannister during an argument. It shows her hitting her head, and then it shows you standing over her for six minutes before calling 911!”

Ethan slammed his fist against the counter, sending a loud THUD echoing through the visitor booth.

“She set me up, Richard!” Ethan screamed into his phone, his face twisting into a hideous mask of rage. “She put those cameras in the smoke detectors! That’s an illegal invasion of my privacy! In Virginia, both parties have to consent to audio recordings in a private residence!”

“It doesn't apply to murder cases involving domestic violence when the camera was installed by a legal co-owner of the property!” Sterling barked back. “Emily’s name was on the deed of the house through the Vanguard trust! She had every legal right to monitor her own home!”

Ethan pressed his palms against his face, let out a ragged sob, and pulled at his hair. “What about Jessica? Has she talked to the police?”

Sterling looked away, sighing heavily. “Jessica signed a proffer agreement with the District Attorney two hours ago. In exchange for immunity from accessory charges, she gave them three years of text messages between you and her.”

Ethan went completely stiff. “What... what text messages?”

“The ones where you explicitly told her that once Emily was ‘out of the picture,’ you would use the trust fund money to buy the vineyard in Tuscany,” Sterling said coldly. “The prosecution has a paper trail thicker than a telephone book, Ethan. They have intent. They have motive. They have physical evidence.”

“No... no, there has to be a way out,” Ethan whimpered, his confidence entirely evaporated. He leaned closer to the glass, his breath fogging the surface. “What about Sarah? Her mother. She’s an old woman! She doesn't know anything about high-finance or legal battles. Offer her a settlement! Give her fifty million from the hedge fund—give her whatever she wants to drop the civil suit!”

Sterling stared at his client with a mixture of disgust and pity. “Are you completely blind, Ethan? Sarah isn't doing this for money. She already controls the money. She liquidated Caldwell Capital this morning. The company is gone. Your accounts are frozen. Your legal defense fund is currently capped at whatever cash you had in your personal checking account—which my retainer just exhausted.”

Ethan’s jaw dropped. “What? You’re dropping my case?!”

“I’m an attorney, Ethan, not a charity,” Sterling said, packing his leather briefcase and standing up. “Unless you can find ten million dollars in untraceable cash by tomorrow morning, you’ll be assigned a public defender for the arraignment.”

“Richard! Wait! Don't leave me!” Ethan beat his fists against the glass, screaming until his voice rasped. “Richard!”

The heavy steel door at the end of the hall clicked open. A corrections officer stepped in, wrapping his fingers around Ethan’s arm and forcing him back toward his cell.

As Ethan was dragged down the dim corridor, the other inmates leaned against their cell bars, laughing and catcalling at the fallen billionaire.

He was thrown into a six-by-eight cell with a dripping sink and a rusted iron bunk bed. Sitting on the lower bunk was a massive, tattooed man who was quietly sharpening a plastic comb against the concrete floor.