1917

February 27, 1918

The arrival of Judge Webber on February 27th marked a turning point, bringing an air of long-awaited professionalism to the proceedings. Unlike his predecessor, whose ineptitude had left tensions simmering, Webber exuded an aura of competence. His demeanor was calm but assured, his movements deliberate, and his presence carried a weight that immediately commanded respect.

As we entered the courtroom, he approached us, a warm, genuine smile gracing his face. It wasn't the calculated, almost serpentine grin we had come to associate with Pinkerton. This smile felt authentic, disarming in its sincerity and oddly comforting amid the chaos that had plagued the case. His eyes, sharp but kind, seemed to take in every detail, assessing without judgment.

For the first time, it felt as if fairness might finally take its place at the heart of the proceedings. Webber's introduction was a stark contrast to the turmoil that had come before, and with it, a cautious hope began to stir among us.

The tension in the courtroom flared like a live wire the moment Judge Webber took his seat. He wasted no time, his booming voice cutting through the murmurs. "Let's get that rascal in!" he demanded, his eyes narrowing on the entrance. He meant Abel, of course—the very embodiment of privilege gone unchecked.

When Abel Simmons finally entered, his face was a storm of indignation. "You had no right to get Pinkerton arrested!" he fumed, his tone sharp and his posture bristling, as though trying to intimidate everyone present.

I leaned back in my chair, smirking. "Oh? Sucks to not have Daddy's money to bail you out this time, Abel." The words stung, and I could see it in his clenched fists. He'd been slapped with a no-bail notice, ensuring he couldn't slip away from the reckoning he'd earned.

"Why you little bi—" he began, his face reddening with anger.

"Mr. Simmons," Judge Webber interjected sharply, leaning forward with a wry smile, "Jeremiah is not a b***h. That honor, I'm afraid, belongs to you." The courtroom erupted in a mixture of muffled laughter and gasps, and for once, Abel looked stunned into silence.

But only for a moment. He tried to claw back his composure, his voice dropping into a pathetic mumble. "I'm sorry, Judge. I... I didn't mean to burn the forest down," he muttered, his gaze darting to the floor.

"Bullcrap!" I shouted, unable to hold back. The lie was so blatant it was laughable. His guilt was as obvious as the thick smoke that had once filled the skies.

"I demand a recess," Abel blurted out, his tone desperate and his demand as laughable as his defense.

Judge Webber chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Mr. Simmons, you can demand all you like, but you're not escaping this trial. Not today, not ever."

Abel slumped into his chair, his bravado crumbling like ash. The walls were closing in on him, and no amount of bluster or entitlement could save him now.

"So, no recess?" Abel grumbled, slouching in his seat like the weight of the world—or at least his ego—was too much to bear.

"Afraid not," the judge replied bluntly, not even glancing up from his notes.

Abel groaned, his muttering barely audible but still obnoxious enough to fill the room. "Damn, that's not fair..."

"What do you know about fair, Abel?" I asked, unable to hold back my irritation.

"More than you, dumbass," he scoffed, flashing that trademark smug grin that made my blood boil.

I clenched my fists under the table. "Can we begin the damn case already?" I begged, desperate to get this over with.

"Sure thing, Jeremiah," Judge Webber said, his tone almost sympathetic as he shuffled his papers.

He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on Abel, who immediately stiffened. "Abel Simmons, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," Abel muttered through gritted teeth, glaring daggers at me.

"Very well. You have been accused of the crime of arson. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor," Abel replied, his voice calm, but the faint twitch in his jaw betrayed him.

"Jeremiah," the judge said, gesturing toward me. "Show him the evidence."

I stood, holding up a piece of charred bark for the courtroom to see. The blackened edges were unmistakable, a damning remnant of the fire that had torn through the forest. Abel's confidence evaporated in an instant.

"Where... did you get that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The forest," I said with a grin that matched the satisfaction bubbling inside me.

His face paled, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. "Oh, hell no! Don't listen to him, Your Honor," Abel stammered, his bravado cracking like thin ice.

Judge Webber chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "I see no reason to doubt him, Mr. Simmons. The evidence speaks for itself."

"But, but," Abel stuttered, his composure unraveling as he glanced around the courtroom, searching for a lifeline that wasn't there.

"No buts, Mr. Simmons," Judge Webber said sternly, his tone sharp enough to cut through Abel's panicked protests. "That is not how justice works."

Abel's face twisted with frustration, and he shot to his feet, slamming his hands on the table. "Then screw justice!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the room like a gavel strike.

"Mr. Simmons, please sit down," the judge ordered, his voice icy now.

For a moment, Abel hesitated, his chest heaving as if he were about to argue further. But under the weight of Judge Webber's steely gaze—and the damning piece of evidence still clutched in my hand—he sank back into his chair.

The room remained silent except for the heavy breaths of Abel, his bravado stripped away as Judge Webber's words rang out like thunder. Justice was catching up to him, and no amount of swagger or underhanded tricks could stop it now.

"Judge Webber, may I have a pair of scissors?" I asked, my voice steady. I had a plan to expose Abel's guilt once and for all.

The judge raised an eyebrow but nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Certainly, Jeremiah. Be careful with Mr. Simmons, though—he's like an eggshell pretending to be macho."

"Yes, Your Honor," I replied, approaching the desk to grab the scissors.

Abel stiffened immediately. "Don't you even dare!" he growled, his voice low and threatening.

"Sorry," I said with a mocking grin.

"No, you're not," he shot back, exhaling a deep, frustrated sigh.

Ignoring his protests, I walked over and grabbed the hem of his shirt. With one quick motion, I cut off a piece of the fabric. The sharp scent of gasoline hit the air as soon as I held it up. Abel's face twisted in horror as he sniffed the fragment and recoiled. His reaction told everyone in the courtroom what they needed to know.

"Mr. Simmons," Judge Webber said with deliberate calm, his voice slicing through the tension, "the court has found you guilty of arson in the first degree. You will be prosecuted at Falstaff Prison."

Abel's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with defiance. "Go to hell!" he snarled, slamming his fists on the table. "That's where I'll see you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Judge Webber said, unfazed by the outburst. He waved a hand toward the courtroom doors. "Officer Roseland, please lead this child to Falstaff Prison."

Officer Roseland stepped forward, gripping Abel by the arm, but Abel turned to the judge, his voice trembling now. "So, what is my sentence?" he asked, the first cracks of fear slipping through his angry mask.

Judge Webber leaned forward, his expression stern. "Three years minimum," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I'd have made it twenty, but you're too young to be prosecuted as an adult."

Abel's face went pale, the reality of his situation finally sinking in. For the first time that day, he had no retort, no smug comeback. He was just a scared kid, cornered by the truth and the consequences of his actions.

As Officer Roseland escorted him out of the courtroom, I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. Satisfaction, yes, but also a sense of sadness. Abel had brought this on himself, but it didn't change the fact that lives—his included—had been burned by his choices. Justice had been served, but the scars would linger long after the sentence was over.

I bolted through the front door, barely able to contain my excitement. "Papa!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the house. "We won the case!"

My father came rushing out of the kitchen, his hands still damp from washing dishes. His brows furrowed at first, but when my words registered, his expression shifted to one of shock. "You beat that bastard?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

"Yes, Papa," I said, beaming as I ran to hug him. The words spilled out of me as I wrapped my arms around him. "We showed Abel for who he is. The evidence was undeniable!"

He hugged me tightly, his hand resting on the back of my head like it had when I was a child. "I am so very proud of you," he said, his voice cracking just enough to reveal how much it meant to him. He sniffed a little, brushing at his eyes, though he tried to hide it.

"Thank you," I replied, my voice catching as emotion welled up in my chest. "I am too."

For a moment, we stood there, father and child, wrapped in an unspoken understanding. It wasn't just about the victory—it was about justice, about standing up for what was right even when the odds were against us.

As we broke the hug, my father placed a hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. "You didn't just win for yourself. You showed that truth and determination can triumph over lies and corruption. That's something to be proud of."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I couldn't have done it without you, Papa," I said softly.

His face broke into a proud smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of the past few weeks seemed to lift. Together, we celebrated not just a court case but a small, hard-fought victory for justice—and ourselves.

That night, I lay down in bed, a wave of satisfaction washing over me. The impossible had been conquered, and for once, pride-filled every corner of my heart. As I stared at the ceiling, a smile played on my lips.

"Thank you, God," I whispered into the darkness, my voice barely audible. Deep down, I knew He was the one who had given me the strength, the clarity, and the courage to prevail. My victory wasn't just mine—it was His, too.

I closed my eyes, letting the excitement of the day lull me to sleep. Almost immediately, a dream unfolded before me, vivid and warm. There he was: Carson. His familiar smile lit up the dream like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

"Congratulations," he said, his voice steady and proud.

"I love you, Carson," I replied, my words thick with emotion. I had missed him so much, and in this moment, it felt like he was truly with me again.

"I know," he said with a playful wink, the same way he always had. There was no sadness in him, no trace of the cruel hand that life had dealt him. He radiated a joy that seemed untouchable, an excitement for life that hadn't been dimmed, even by death.

I felt tears prick my eyes in the dream, but they weren't from sorrow. Thinking of Carson in heaven, free from the pain and injustices of this world, filled me with unshakable peace. It was as if all my worries, all the lingering bitterness and frustration, melted away in that moment.

What was there to be upset about? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Carson's presence, his light, reminded me that there was more to life than its trials—that even in the darkest times, there was love, hope, and a future to hold on to.