Fiero stood shakily. “Your honor… my client would like to take the stand to clarify this unfortunate misunderstanding.”
Judge Carmichael raised an eyebrow. “Oh, he does, does he?”
Avery stood calmly. “No objection, your honor,” she said. “We would be delighted.”
“Very well,” the judge said, voice laced with ice. “Mr. Walsh, take the stand. You are under oath.”
Greg shoved his way forward, trying to project confidence.
But he was drowning.
He sat gripping the rail until his knuckles were white.
“Your honor,” Greg began, voice slick, “this is… a travesty. My wife and I—we’re worried about him. That’s all.”
He pointed at me. “He’s confused. Paranoid. Locks himself in that little house. Hides his finances. Accused me of trying to steal from him.”
He put on the performance of a wounded family man.
“All we wanted was to protect him from himself. He’s not lucid, your honor. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Fiero asked him gently, like guiding a client through rehearsed lines. “So your motivation is concern for his well-being?”
“100%,” Greg said, oozing sincerity.
Fiero sat down, looking like he’d found a rope in a flood.
Avery stood.
She approached Greg with a kind of quiet curiosity that is far more terrifying than aggression.
“Mr. Walsh,” she said, “you just testified that my client is not lucid and paranoid.”
“That’s right,” Greg said quickly, grateful to regain footing. “He’s deeply confused.”
“And his confusion centers on finances,” Avery said.
“Yes,” Greg snapped. “He doesn’t understand money.”
Avery nodded. “I see. So you believe he’s incompetent because he doesn’t understand ‘modern finance.’”
“Exactly.”
“Interesting,” Avery murmured. “So when you approached him two weeks ago and asked him for five hundred thousand dollars—what were you doing? Testing his lucidity?”
Greg’s face tightened. “I was offering an investment.”
“You asked a man you believed incompetent for half a million dollars?” Avery asked, voice still mild.
“It was a chance to be part of the family’s success,” Greg said.
“And when he refused,” Avery pressed, “that refusal is what you claim proved his incompetence.”
“Yes,” Greg said, arrogant now. “I offered him the deal of a lifetime.”
He turned toward the judge, playing reasonable. “He said it was too risky. Too scared. Too old to see opportunity.”
He had just built his own gallows.
Avery’s voice sharpened. “A golden opportunity, Mr. Walsh? A slam dunk?”
“Absolutely,” Greg said.
Avery’s tone turned cold. “Is that why the project is fifty million dollars over budget and facing sixteen contractor liens?”
The color drained from Greg’s face.
“That’s—” he stammered. “That’s a lie.”
“It’s not privileged when you’re in default,” Avery said calmly. “Isn’t it true Citadel Apex issued a five million capital call due ten days ago?”
Greg’s mouth opened and closed. No sound came out.
Avery continued, relentless. “You didn’t have it. You were bankrupt.”
“No!” Greg roared, composure cracking. “Temporary cash flow problem!”
“And yet,” Avery said, voice rising, “you found money to pay your lawyer. Money to bribe Mr. Lim. My question is simple: where did you get it?”
Greg looked at Melissa.
Melissa froze.
Avery provided the answer like a blade sliding home.
“You got it from a charity,” she said. “From the Isabelle Price Foundation.”
At the sound of her mother’s name, Melissa let out a choked sound.
Avery held up new documents. “One hundred fifty thousand to Walsh Holdings. Eighty thousand to LA Premier Events—a shell company you own. Two hundred thirty thousand stolen from cancer research.”
Melissa shot to her feet, face contorting with disbelief and rage.
“You lied to me!” she screamed at Greg. “You told me those were legal fees! Approved!”
Greg exploded, purple-faced.
“Shut up, Melissa!” he shrieked. “Just shut up!”
He pointed at me, eyes wild. “This is his fault! That selfish old man! He had the money! He could have fixed everything! He said no, so he made me do it!”
The courtroom erupted into chaos—Melissa sobbing, Greg screaming, Fiero trying to object, the bailiff shifting, Judge Carmichael’s face turning into a thundercloud.
The gavel slammed like a gunshot.
“Silence!” Judge Carmichael roared. “Mr. Walsh, sit down or you will be held in contempt.”
Greg collapsed back into the box, breathing hard.
Melissa sank down, sobbing into wet gasps.
The room went deathly quiet.
Then Judge Carmichael looked at me.
The anger in his face softened into something like respect—and deep curiosity.
“Mr. Price,” he said, voice calm but powerful, “do you wish to say anything in your defense regarding your competency?”
I stood slowly.
I didn’t lean on the table. I didn’t waver.
I clasped my hands loosely behind my back.
“Thank you, your honor,” I said, voice clear. “But I’m not here to argue about my sanity.”
The room held still.
“I’m not here to defend myself,” I continued. “My competency is not in question.”
I paused, letting the words land.
“I came here today to file a criminal complaint.”
Fiero leapt up. “Objection! Theater—”
“Sit down,” Judge Carmichael snapped. “You opened this door.”
He turned to me. “Proceed.”
I looked at Greg. He stared at me with dawning horror.
“Mr. Walsh has confessed to part of it,” I said, voice flat as an anatomist describing a corpse. “He confessed to embezzling two hundred thirty thousand dollars from the Isabelle Price Foundation.”
Melissa’s sobs hitched.
“But he could not act alone,” I continued, turning my gaze slowly to my daughter. “He needed a signature. He needed the director’s signature.”
Melissa’s face lifted, mascara streaked, eyes pleading.
“And you signed the checks,” I said. “Knowingly. With full intent.”
Melissa let out a wail—pure animal despair.
“No,” she sobbed. “I didn’t know—he told me—”
“You signed them,” I said, cutting her off. Not accusation. Fact.
Greg, seeing her crumble, surged up with desperate bravado.
He laughed hysterically. “You can’t do anything to me!” he shrieked. “You’re a nobody! A sad senile old man in a guest house! You have nothing!”
He believed it.
He believed I was powerless.