"You're bluffing," my sister whimpered as her bat hit the floor, realizing that smashing my instrument proved malicious destruction of federal subpoenaed evidence.

The sentencing hearing for Arthur Pendelton and Patricia Vance took place six months later, in the pale green light of early spring.

The courtroom was packed to capacity. Representatives from twenty-four regional arts organizations, music teachers from across three counties, donors whose life savings had been stolen under the guise of cultural preservation, and reporters from every major national news outlet filled the benches.

Arthur stood first. His once-regal bearing was completely shattered. He had lost forty pounds; his gray hair was clipped down to the scalp, and he wore the orange jumpsuit with the hunched, shuffling gait of a man who knew his name would forever be synonymous with small-time greed and high-society ruin.

“I have no excuses, Your Honor,” he mumbled into the microphone, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air handlers. “I let my ambition and my desire to maintain an image of success destroy my integrity. I am deeply sorry to the children and the community I betrayed.”

Judge Alvarez looked down from the bench, her expression as unyielding as the granite steps outside.

“Mr. Pendelton, you did not suffer from ambition; you suffered from an absolute deficit of human decency,” Alvarez said. “You used a children’s charity as your personal piggy bank to fund country club slips and sports cars for your family. The court sentences you to one hundred and thirty-two months in federal custody, followed by three years of supervised release, and orders restitution in the amount of four million, one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”

Arthur nodded once, a mechanical, broken gesture, and was led away by the marshals.

Then came Patricia.

Her public defender made a desperate, half-hearted plea for leniency based on her age and medical complaints—an elevated blood pressure reading and mild arthritis in her fingers.

When Patricia was given the opportunity to speak, she stood before the microphone, still clutching her handkerchief, still trying to project the aura of a wronged matriarch.

“Your Honor,” she said, her voice trembling with theatrical pathos. “I am an old woman who was betrayed by those I loved. My son-in-law deceived me. My own daughter turned against me out of a childhood jealousy that has poisoned her heart. I ask for mercy so that I may spend my remaining years in peace, reflecting on my mistakes.”

Judge Alvarez didn't even pick up her pen.

“Mrs. Vance, I have presided over criminal trials in this district for twenty-six years,” the judge said, her voice ringing through the silent chamber like an iron bell. “I have rarely seen a defendant display such a total, breathtaking absence of remorse. Throughout these proceedings, you have attempted to blame your son-in-law, your younger daughter, and most egregiously, your older daughter—an officer of this court who demonstrated exceptional integrity in exposing your crimes.”

Patricia flinched, stepping back toward Morris.

“You did not steal out of need,” Alvarez continued. “You stole out of vanity. You believed that because you had a recognizable name and moved in elevated social circles, the laws governing ordinary citizens did not apply to you. You stole the future of young musicians, you attempted to destroy evidence, and you demonstrated a venom toward your own flesh and blood that this court finds utterly abhorrent.”

The judge picked up her gavel.

“On counts one through four, the court sentences you to one hundred and forty-four months. On counts five through eight, one hundred and forty-four months to run concurrently. You are remanded to the custody of the Attorney General immediately, to be designated to the Federal Medical Center at Carswell. The restitution order will attach to every asset, pension, and property you currently possess or may inherit in the future. Court is adjourned.”

The gavel fell.

*Crack.*

The sound was clean, sharp, and final. It was the sound of a heavy iron door locking from the outside.

Patricia didn't scream this time. She collapsed into her chair like a marionette whose strings had been severed simultaneously. The marshals stepped forward, lifted her by the elbows, and walked her through the side entrance into the holding cells.

I sat in the third row of the gallery, next to Vance Miller.

“It’s over, Claire,” Miller said quietly, touching my shoulder. “The entire recovery fund has been secured. The endowment is being restored at ninety-five cents on the dollar after the liquidations.”

I looked up at the Great Seal of the United States mounted on the walnut wall behind the bench.