The judgment

Harald

Sitting in the section reserved for the defendant, my sweaty hands rested on my knees. The courtroom was packed, and the air was thick with murmurs and looks of contempt. I couldn't lift my head to look at anyone; shame weighed on me like an unbreakable chain. The judge began reading the crimes my family was being tried for, and with each word uttered, the burden grew. My name was tied to all of this, even though I had never had a direct hand in the business. But as Charles Morton's son and Bruce's brother, my presence was inevitable. I was a Morton, and now I was paying for it.

As the judge described the evidence, I saw the grim faces of those who had been victims of our family. There were many stories of lives destroyed by the greed and power the Mortons had accumulated over the years. As I tried to distance myself from this weight, I felt myself sinking more and more into the mud they created. Each statement was a blow, each report was an open wound that burned inside.

I kne