The hearing room at the SEC’s New York office was designed to suffocate. There were no windows, only acres of dark, polished mahogany and the oppressive weight of federal authority. The air, chilled to a precise sixty-eight degrees, tasted of stale coffee and quiet dread. I sat at a long table, a lone defendant flanked by a Quinn & Thorne lawyer, Peterson, whose only function was to ensure I didn’t deviate from the script Marcus had written for me.
I had dressed for my own execution. Not in one of my usual armor-like Tom Ford suits, but in a simple, charcoal-grey sheath dress. It was a costume of contrition, chosen to make me look subdued, remorseful, and small. Across the room, Marcus sat beside a beautifully fragile-looking Quiana. He was the picture of gravitas and reluctant duty, a ki
