Chapter 8 - The Fall of the House of Halston
The sentence came down on a wet Tuesday in mid-January.
The federal courtroom in downtown Seattle was packed with reporters, but the gallery behind Derek Halston was empty. His father was not there; Julian was currently under home confinement at his estate in Medina, awaiting his own trial for securities fraud and illegal campaign contributions. His mother had fled to a private clinic in Palm Springs. His fraternity brothers and high-society associates had long since erased him from their social media feeds.
Derek sat at the defense table in a bright orange prison jumpsuit, his wrists shackled to a heavy leather chain around his waist.
He had lost twenty-five pounds during his two months at SeaTac. His cheeks were hollow, his skin had that distinct, chalky gray tint of federal institutional lighting, and his once-manicured hands were cracked and bitten down to the quick.
The federal judge, a seventy-year-old former Navy JAG officer named Robert Campbell, adjusted his glasses and looked down from the bench with cold, unblinking eyes.
“Derek Halston,” Judge Campbell said, his voice echoing in the wood-paneled room. “In my thirty years on the bench, I have rarely seen a case of such unmitigated arrogance combined with such reckless depravity. You were born into immense privilege, handed every opportunity an American citizen could hope for, and yet you chose to build your success on theft, deception, and the deliberate endangerment of the very service members who protect your freedom to make a profit.”
Derek kept his head down, his chin pressed against the rough cotton collar of the jumpsuit.
“You stood in a public ballroom,” the judge continued, “and mocked a decorated combat veteran for her physical sacrifice—a sacrifice she made while saving lives, an act of which you are manifestly incapable. You then weaponized her classified service to destroy her reputation, stole her life's work, and attempted to deliver compromised warships to the United States Navy.”
Judge Campbell turned a page of the pre-sentencing report with a dry, rustling sound.
“On count one, wire fraud: ten years. On count two, intentional procurement sabotage of national defense materials: twenty years. On count three, attempted dissemination of classified technical data: fifteen years. Sentences to run consecutively.”
A collective gasp swept through the press gallery.
Derek’s head snapped up. His eyes went wide, wild with sudden, suffocating panic.
“Forty-five years,” Derek whispered, his voice cracking into a high, thin wail. “No… no! Your Honor, please! I’m thirty-eight! That’s—that’s a life sentence! My lawyers said ten years! They said a plea agreement!”
“Your lawyers should have informed you that the False Claims Act carries enhanced penalties when intentional human risk is demonstrated,” Judge Campbell said, not even looking up as he signed the commitment order. “You will serve your time at the United States Penitentiary, Florence High, with no possibility of parole. Remand the prisoner.”
Two burly federal marshals grabbed Derek by the upper arms.
“Mara!” Derek screamed, twisting his body wildly as the chains rattled against his hips. He locked eyes with me where I sat in the second row of the gallery beside James. “Mara, tell them! Tell them you forgive me! You always forgave me! Tell the judge it was an accident! Mara! Please!”
I sat quietly, my hands resting in my lap, James’s shoulder lightly brushing against mine.
I looked at Derek one last time—not with hatred, not with revenge, but with the cold, clear objectivity of an inspector looking at a fractured hull plate that had failed its final stress test.
“Take him down,” the senior marshal said.
Derek’s heels dragged against the polished oak floor as he was hauled through the heavy reinforced door leading to the holding cells, his screams growing fainter and fainter until the heavy steel deadbolt slid into place with a definitive, mechanical *thud*.
Silence returned to the courtroom.
James leaned over, his voice quiet in the sudden stillness. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I said.
We walked out of the courthouse together into the crisp, cold Seattle winter air.
On the steps, the news crews were swarming, but we didn't stop for the microphones. We walked down to the curb where James’s car was waiting, the city moving around us in its endless, indifferent rhythm.
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As the car pulled away from the curb, I looked out the window at the skyline. The massive, towering neon sign of Halston Marine that had dominated the harbor for forty years had been turned off. The letters were dark, dead against the gray winter clouds, waiting for the wrecking crews to come and tear them down.
***