Part 1

The air in courtroom 3B of the Maricopa County Superior Court was stale. It smelled like old coffee, cheap floor wax, and something else… something that smelled like the end of my life.

I’m Devon Washington. I’m 19. And I was being swallowed whole.

I sat at the defense table, itching inside an oversized, scratchy suit my public defender gave me. It felt like a costume. I looked small, lost in the polished mahogany of a system that was about in 30 minutes, to find me guilty of a crime I didn’t commit.

“The prosecution calls Kyle Morton to the stand.”

I watched him walk. Leland Pierce. The prosecutor. He moved like a shark, all predatory grace and a cruel, angular, handsome face. Sandy blonde hair swept back. A crisp, thousand-dollar suit. He was the star of the DA’s office, the “Law and Order” man, and he was about to pin a conviction on me to keep his perfect record.

He flashed a brilliant, toothy smile at the jury. His jury. The one he’d hand-picked. Nine white, two Latino, one Asian. Not a single person in that box looked like me.

My public defender, Rachel Berg, scribbled frantically on a yellow legal pad. She was young, her hair in a severe bun, and she was drowning. I knew she was. We both knew I was innocent. But in this room, knowing and proving were two different universes.

Kyle Morton, a pale, twitchy kid about my age, shuffled to the stand. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t look at anyone but Pierce.

“Mr. Morton,” Pierce began, his voice like smooth honey. “Please tell the court in your own words what you saw on the night of August 22nd.”

Kyle swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I… I was working the night shift. At the Circle K on Jefferson.”

“And what happened at approximately 11:30 p.m.?”

“He… he came in.” Kyle’s hand, resting on the Bible, was shaking. He made a vague gesture toward our table.

“Can you please identify the man who came in?”

Kyle’s eyes darted to me, then bounced off me like a hot coal. “Him.”

“Let the record show,” Pierce boomed, his voice filling the room, “that the witness has identified the defendant, Devon Washington.”

Rachel shot up. “Objection! The witness gestured at the entire defense table, which includes myself and my client.”

Judge Fiona Concincaid, a woman who looked like she’d been carved from granite, sighed. “Sustained. Mr. Pierce, be more specific. Mr. Morton, you must be precise. Who are you identifying?”

Pierce smiled. It was a trap, and he’d just sprung it. “My apologies, Your Honor. Mr. Morton, do you see the man who robbed you in this courtroom? Please point directly at him.”

Kyle Morton’s face was slick with sweat. He looked like he was going to be sick. He slowly raised a trembling finger.

And he pointed it right at my heart.

“It was him. He had a gun. He told me to empty the register. He… he took the money and a box of…” He faltered.

“A box of what, Mr. Morton?” Pierce prompted, so gentle.

“Cigars. Black Crown Brand.”

My head snapped up. I grabbed Rachel’s arm. “I don’t even smoke,” I whispered, my voice frantic. “I’ve never smoked. I have asthma!”

Rachel just patted my arm. “Stay calm. It’s his turn.”

“And this man,” Pierce continued, pacing in front of the jury, “He threatened your life?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, his voice small. “He said he’d… he’d pop me if I hit the alarm.”

“A terrifying experience, I’m sure.” Pierce let the words hang in the air. He walked to his table and picked up a clear evidence bag.

Inside was a single, crushed box of Black Crown cigars.

“And is this the brand of cigars that was stolen?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“This box, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Pierce announced, “was found in the defendant’s backpack during his arrest, less than 30 minutes after the robbery, just six blocks away.”

He placed the bag on the evidence table. It wasn’t a piece of evidence. It was a checkmate.

Rachel’s stomach clenched. I could practically hear it. The cigars. That was the lynchpin. I swore to her they weren’t mine. I had been at the park, writing. I was working on a new track, just trying to get the hook right. Then the world exploded in flashing blue and red. The cops descended, yelling. They ripped my bag off my back, threw my notebook—my lyrics—onto the grass, and suddenly… suddenly… they “found” those cigars at the bottom.

It was a plant. A classic, lazy plant. But it was my word against two officers and this twitchy kid on the stand.

“Your witness,” Pierce said, sitting down with a smirk that made my skin crawl.

Rachel stood, adjusting her glasses. “Mr. Morton, you seem nervous.”

“Objection. Relevance,” Pierce called out, sounding bored.

“It goes to the witness’s credibility, Your Honor. He seems to be under duress.”

“I’ll allow it. Briefly, Ms. Berg.”

“Mr. Morton,” Rachel said, her voice kind but firm. “You originally told Detective Harding that the robber was wearing a full ski mask. Is that correct?”

Kyle went even paler, which I didn’t think was possible. “I… I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Rachel pulled a document. “This is Detective Harding’s initial report. Quote: ‘Victim states assailant was approximately 6 ft tall, male, unknown race, wearing a black ski mask and a gray hoodie.’ But today, you’re certain it was my client. How can you be sure if the man’s face was covered?”

Kyle looked desperately toward Pierce.

Pierce stood up. “Objection. Counsel is badgering the witness who has already positively identified the defendant.”

“I am not!” Rachel countered. “I am pointing out a massive contradiction in the state’s primary witness.”

“Mr. Morton,” Judge Concincaid interjected, leaning forward. “Please answer the question. How did you identify the defendant if the robber wore a ski mask?”

Kyle was sweating through his shirt. I could smell his fear from where I sat. “He… he pulled it up. For a second. When he was leaving. He pulled it up and I saw his face. Just for a second.”

It was a lie. A bad one. A stupid, desperate lie. I knew it. Rachel knew it. And I think even Pierce knew it was bad. But the jury? They were eating it up.

“He pulled it up?” Rachel pressed. “Why would he do that? He’s in the middle of a robbery and he decides to unmask himself?”

“I don’t know! He just did!” Kyle shouted. “It was him! I know it was him!”

“Or,” Rachel said, lowering her voice, “is it because Mr. Pierce here showed you a picture of my client, a single photo, not a lineup, and told you it was him?”

“OBJECTION!” Pierce was on his feet, his face turning a blotchy red. “Counsel is making baseless, inflammatory accusations!”

“SUSTAINED!” Judge Concincaid barked. “Ms. Berg, you will strike that from your questioning unless you have proof. Move on or sit down.”

Rachel’s shoulders slumped. She had no proof. Just a gut feeling and a terrified witness.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

As Kyle Morton scuttled off the stand, he cast one quick, terrified look at me. It wasn’t a look of recognition.

It was a look of apology.

And Leland Pierce just smiled.

Part 2

The rest of that day was a blur of systematic character assassination. Pierce called his star, Sergeant Mike Omali, to the stand. This was the guy. The one who put his knee in my back. He had a face like a bulldog and a 20-year history of “aggressive policing” in my neighborhood. Which is a nice way of saying he harassed Black kids for a living.

Pierce led him through it. “You were on patrol?” “Correct.” “Armed robbery, suspect described as a black male, gray hoodie.” “You spotted the defendant?” “Yes. Matched the description.”

Rachel tried. “Was he the only person on the street? The only one matching the description?” “Yes.”

A lie. It was a warm August night. The park was right there. But it didn’t matter.

“And when you stopped him?” “He became agitated. Belligerent. Asking why we were ‘messing with him.’ Classic signs of guilt.”

“Objection!” Rachel was on her feet again, her voice straining. “Officer Omali is not an expert on the ‘signs of guilt.’ He’s offering speculation as fact!”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard that last remark. Stick to the facts, Sergeant.”

“The facts,” Omali said, glaring at Rachel, “are that he resisted arrest. We had to subdue him.”

Subdue me. That’s what he called it. My wrist was still sprained. The cut over my eye had just stopped scabbing. He’d “subdued” me for asking “what did I do?”

“And upon searching his backpack,” Pierce continued, “what did you find?”

“At the bottom of the bag,” Omali said, pointing to the evidence table, “underneath a notebook and some clothes… we found this.” The cigars.

“Did he have an explanation?”

“Claimed they weren’t his. Said we put them there.” Omali let out a short, ugly laugh. “Heard that one a thousand times.”

The jury exchanged glances. Heard that one a thousand times. It was the cry of every guilty man. In that moment, I was no longer Devon Washington, a kid who wrote music and missed his mom. I was just “that one” they’d heard a thousand times.

“Your witness,” Pierce said.

Rachel walked slowly toward him. “Sergeant Omali… Did you stop anyone else? Or did you just see Mr. Washington, decide he was your man, and stop looking?”

“We apprehended a suspect who matched the description and was found in possession of the stolen property. We did our job.”

“You’re certain he was in possession. My client claims the cigars were planted by you or your partner.”

Omali’s face darkened. “That’s a very serious accusation, council.”

“It’s a very serious charge, Sergeant,” Rachel shot back. “Tell me, did your body camera record the entire search of the backpack?”

I saw Pierce, who had been leaning back in his chair, suddenly sit up straight.

Omali shifted. “My camera was active during the arrest, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked. Was it recording at the precise moment you allegedly found the cigars at the bottom of the bag?”

There was a silence so thick you could drown in it.

“…There was a technical issue,” Omali said. “The camera’s battery was running low. The feed seems to have cut out… for about 90 seconds. Right during the search.”

A gasp rippled through the gallery. I shut my eyes. Ninety seconds. That’s all it took to ruin a life.

“How convenient,” Rachel whispered. “A 90-second gap, just when the most critical piece of evidence appears. No further questions.”

Judge Concincaid called for the afternoon recess. I was led back to holding, my stomach in knots. I didn’t know it then, but Rachel, walking to the women’s restroom, had overheard something. She’d heard Pierce grab Omali in the hall, hissing, “A technical issue? You listen to me, you flat-footed idiot. I don’t believe in bad luck. I believe in convictions.”

And then, the line that changed everything. The line Rachel heard through the wall.

“I don’t care if he’s guilty,” Pierce snarled at the cop. “I care that the jury thinks he’s guilty. Fix it.”

When Rachel came to see me in holding, her face was pale, but her eyes were on fire. “Devon,” she said, her voice shaking. “I think I just found what we need. We’re going to put Pierce himself on trial.”

The next morning, it was my turn. I was the defense’s entire case.

“The defense calls Devon Washington to the stand.”

I walked to the box. I swore the oath.

“Devon,” Rachel began, “please tell the jury where you were on the night of August 22nd.”

“I was at East Lake Park,” I said, my voice quiet. “I go there to write. I’m… I’m a musician. A rapper.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Just writing. I had my notebook, my headphones. I was just trying to work out a new track.” I looked at the jury, pleading with my eyes. “I know it sounds… I don’t have anyone who can prove it. I was by myself. But I was just writing.”

“And what happened next?”

“These cops. Their lights just flooded the whole park. They ran up, guns out, yelling at me to get on the ground. I was terrified. I… I asked what was going on. I said I didn’t do anything.”

“Is that when Sergeant Omali says you became ‘belligerent’?”

“I wasn’t belligerent,” I insisted, my voice rising. “I was scared. He had his knee on my back. I told him he was hurting my wrist. He just… he just pushed harder. Then his partner started going through my bag.”

“And the cigars. The Black Crown cigars.”

“I’ve never seen them before in my life,” I said, my voice cracking with frustration. “I have asthma. I don’t smoke. My mom… my mom died from lung cancer. I wouldn’t touch that stuff. The cop pulled it out and was like, ‘What’s this, huh?’ And I told him. I said, ‘That’s not mine. You know that’s not mine.’ And he… he just laughed.”

“Thank you, Devon. No further questions.”

Then it was his turn. Pierce stood up, looking at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

“A ‘musician’?” he began, his voice dripping with condescension. “You mean a rapper? Tell me, Mr. Washington, what are your songs about? The struggles of the street? The police? How the system is ‘out to get you’?”

“Objection!” Rachel snapped. “This is character assassination, Your Honor! It’s irrelevant and deeply prejudicial.”

“Mr. Pierce,” Judge Concincaid warned. “You are on a very thin wire.”

“The facts are his character, Your Honor,” Pierce countered smoothly. “I write about my life,” I said, lifting my chin. “I write about losing my mom. And yeah… yeah, I write about feeling like I’m being watched all the time just for how I look.”

“So, you do have a problem with authority. With the police.”

“I have a problem with being treated like a criminal when I’m just sitting in a park!”

“So you resisted?”

“I asked a question!” I shot back. “And I got thrown to the ground for it!”

“Right.” Pierce smiled. He walked over and held up the cigar box. “So, your testimony is that Sergeant Omali, a 20-year veteran of the force, and his partner, both decided to frame you. They just happened to have a box of Black Crown cigars, the exact brand stolen, in their squad car, waiting for a rapper to frame.”

“I don’t know how it happened,” I said, my voice desperate. “I just know it’s not mine.”

“Of course you don’t.” He turned to the jury. “He has no respect for the law. He’s caught red-handed. His only defense is that the cops planted it. The oldest excuse in the book. And now he’s lying to you on the stand.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re not?” Pierce’s voice went cold. “Mr. Washington, is it true that you were arrested two years ago for shoplifting?”

I froze. The air left my lungs.

“OBJECTION!” Rachel screamed. “Your Honor, that record is SEALED! It’s a juvenile offense! Mr. Pierce knows this is inadmissible!”

“OBJECTION SUSTAINED!” Judge Concincaid’s voice was a thunderclap. “Mr. Pierce, that was a flagrant and unprofessional violation! The jury will STRENUOUSLY disregard that question. It has no bearing on this case whatsoever!”

But it didn’t matter. The damage was done. The jury had heard it. A thief. A rapper. A liar.

“My apologies, Your Honor,” Pierce said, not sounding apologetic at all. “No further questions.”

I walked back to the table, my legs shaking. I was defeated. “I’m sorry, Rachel,” I whispered. “I blew it.”

“No,” she said, her eyes fixed on Pierce. “You didn’t. He did.”

“The defense rests, Your Honor.”

Judge Concincaid called for lunch recess. We’d return for closing arguments. As the jury filed out, Pierce packed his briefcase, whistling. He’d won. He’d just hammered the last nail in my coffin.

I was led away. But Rachel wasn’t. She sprinted to the court clerk’s office. She had to report what she’d heard Pierce say. “I don’t care if he’s guilty.” It was hearsay, but it was misconduct.

She found the head clerk, a man named Ben. “Ben, I need to file a motion for a mistrial based on prosecutorial misconduct.” “Ms. Berg, Judge Concincaid doesn’t grant those lightly.” “I have more,” Rachel said, lowering her voice. “I overheard him… he said ‘I don’t care if he’s guilty. I care that the jury thinks he’s guilty.’ He’s not trying a case. He’s building one.”

Ben’s professional boredom vanished. “He said that out loud?” “Yes. And I need to tell the judge.” “The judge is at lunch… but this is serious. Everyone knows Pierce is dirty, but no one’s ever caught him.” Ben looked at my case file on his desk. “State v. Washington. Devon. Washington… Washington…”

He typed something into his computer. Just routine due diligence. He typed “Devon Washington.” Then he typed “Washington, Robert.”

He stopped. He clicked a link. A profile popped up. His face went completely white.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

“Ben, what is it?” Rachel asked.

Ben looked up at her, his hands shaking. “Ms. Berg, your misconduct motion is about to become the least of Leland Pierce’s problems. Does your client… does Devon know who his father is?”

“What? Of course. He’s estranged from him. Some construction guy… I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about him. Why?”

Ben turned the monitor towards her.

On the screen was the official state website. And on it, a picture of a tall, imposing, smiling Black man. The caption read: “Robert Washington, Arizona State Attorney General.”

Rachel’s knees went weak. “His… his father… is the chief law enforcement officer of the entire state?”

“And Leland Pierce,” Ben finished, “just framed his son.”

Judge Concincaid was in her chambers picking at a salad when Ben and Rachel burst in. “Your Honor, you need to see this. Immediately.” Ben slapped the printout of the AG’s webpage on her desk next to my intake file. “State versus Washington. Devon Washington. Look at the father’s name on the intake. Robert Washington. I ran it. That is Robert Washington.”

The judge stared at the photo. Her blood ran cold.

“He’s estranged, apparently,” Ben said. “Which is why no one made the connection. Pierce probably saw ‘Devon Washington, 19, Black, no private attorney’ and just licked his chops. He never bothered to look.”

“Your Honor,” Rachel jumped in, “I also overheard Mr. Pierce threatening Sergeant Omali. And I heard him say he didn’t care if I was guilty. He is suppressing exculpatory evidence.”

Judge Concincaid stood up. She was furious. But her anger was cold and precise. She wasn’t just angry that I was the AG’s son. She was angry that a prosecutor operating under her authority was so arrogant, so racist, and so stupid.

“He’s done this before,” she whispered. “How many other Devon Washingtons has he sent up the river because they didn’t have a powerful father?”

She looked at the clock. 12:45 PM. “Ben, get the District Attorney on the phone. Tell him I need him in my courtroom in 10 minutes or I’m calling the state bar and the governor.” She then picked up her personal phone. “Who are you calling, Your Honor?” Rachel asked. “The one person who can stop this circus dead,” the judge said. “Yes, this is Judge Fiona Concincaid. I need to speak to Attorney General Robert Washington. Tell him it’s an emergency. Regarding his son.”

At 1:00 PM, I was back at the table. I felt sick. This was it. Closing arguments. Pierce was at his table, sipping water, that confident smile back on his face.

“Court is back in session,” Judge Concincaid said, her face an unreadable mask. “Mr. Pierce, you may begin your closing argument.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He stood, turning to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, the facts are simple. The facts are undisputed. On August 22nd, a man… threatened a young man’s life… and pointed to the man who did it… That man.” He pointed at me.

“We heard from Sergeant Omali… found the defendant six blocks away… found the stolen property… The defense,” Pierce scoffed, “is a fantasy. It’s ‘the cops planted it.’ It’s ‘the witnesses are lying.’ It is an insult to your intelligence. It is the desperate, pathetic lie of a young man who has no respect for the law, no respect for this court, and no respect for you. He is a common thief…”

The main doors of the courtroom suddenly slammed open. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Everyone turned. Pierce paused, annoyed. “Your Honor…” His words died in his throat.

Standing in the doorway were two men in dark suits, state police. And between them was a tall, powerfully built Black man who radiated an authority that eclipsed everyone in the room. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit, and his face was a mask of cold, controlled fury.

He didn’t look at the judge. He didn’t look at the jury. His eyes were locked on me.

My head snapped up. My jaw went slack. The blood drained from my face.

I whispered one word.

“Dad?”

The Attorney General of Arizona, Robert Washington, my father, began walking down the central aisle. The thud, thud, thud of his footsteps on the marble floor was the only sound in the dead, silent room.

Leland Pierce looked at my dad. He looked at me. He looked back at my dad. Washington. Devon Washington. Robert Washington. The color drained from his face. “No,” he whispered. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

My father reached the defense table. He put one large, steady hand on my shoulder. I was trembling, looking up at him like he was a ghost. “It’s all right, son,” he said, his voice quiet, but it carried in the silence.

He then turned, his gaze falling on Leland Pierce. It wasn’t a gaze. It was an indictment.

Pierce visibly shrank.

Judge Concincaid finally spoke. “Mr. Pierce, it appears the defense has a new spectator. Please continue with your closing argument.”

Leland Pierce opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He looked from the stone-faced Attorney General to the furious judge. “I… I…” he stammered. “Your Honor… I… What is the meaning of this interruption?”

“Interruption?” my father spoke, his voice a low baritone that commanded absolute attention. “I’m not interrupting, Mr. Pierce. I am intervening.”

“Your Honor!” Pierce shrieked, his composure shattering. “This is wildly improper! This is… this is jury tampering!”

“Sit down, Mr. Pierce,” Judge Concincaid’s voice was lethal. “You’re embarrassing yourself. The jury will be excused. Now.”

The moment the door closed, the judge turned on Pierce. The District Attorney, his boss, had slipped in from a side door, his face grim. “Leland,” the DA barked. “What in God’s name did you do?”

“I… I was trying a case! A simple armed robbery!” Pierce protested.

“A simple armed robbery,” my father repeated, dangerously calm. He pulled a chair from the gallery and sat down at the table with me and Rachel. “A simple armed robbery where your star witness, Kyle Morton, was threatened?”

Pierce’s blood turned to ice.

“Is it?” My father slid a manila folder across the table to the judge. “My office received a call from a very frightened Mr. Morton less than an hour ago. My investigators are taking his sworn affidavit as we speak. An affidavit that states in no uncertain terms that you, Mr. Pierce, approached him two days ago, showed him a picture of my son, and told him that if he didn’t identify him on the stand, you would personally resurrect a sealed juvenile drug charge against him.”

Pierce began to hyperventilate. “He’s lying! The kid’s a liar!”

“And then,” my father continued, “there is Sergeant Mike Omali. My office has just pulled the full, unredacted maintenance log for his body camera. It didn’t have a low battery. It was manually deactivated from his belt unit for exactly 94 seconds. The precise moment the stolen cigars were ‘discovered.’ I believe the term for that, Mr. Pierce, is fabrication of evidence.”

“This is a setup!” Pierce looked wildly at his boss. “Howard, you can’t let him do this!”

His boss looked at him with utter contempt. “You just framed the Attorney General’s son. You don’t have a jurisdiction, Leland. You have a severance package. If you’re lucky. You’re fired.”

“Oh, you’re far more than fired,” Judge Concincaid said, her voice dripping with ice. “Mr. Pierce, in my 20 years on this bench, I have never seen such a grotesque and arrogant display of prosecutorial misconduct. You, sir, are a cancer.”

She picked up the folder. “Based on the evidence of witness tampering, fabrication of evidence, and flagrant suppression of exculpatory material, I am declaring a mistrial. This case is dismissed with prejudice.” She slammed her gavel. “Devon Washington, you are free to go.”

The bailiff came and unlocked my cuffs. But my father wasn’t finished.

“It’s not over,” Robert Washington said, standing to his full height. He looked at the two state police officers he’d brought with him. “Mr. Pierce, my investigators also have Ms. Berg’s testimony about a private conversation you had with Sergeant Omali, in which you stated, ‘I don’t care if he’s guilty. I care that the jury thinks he’s guilty.’ That is not a prosecutor. That is a criminal.”

My father pointed a finger at the trembling prosecutor. “Leland Pierce, you are under arrest for witness tampering, subordination of perjury, and obstruction of justice.”

The entire system that Pierce had manipulated for years just turned on him in an instant.

“You… you can’t,” he whimpered as the officers moved in.

“I am the chief law enforcement officer of this state, Mr. Pierce,” my father said, his voice pure steel. “I can. And I am.”

As the officers pulled Pierce’s hands behind his back, he looked at me, his face a mask of pathetic, begging disbelief. I just stared back.

He was dragged, weeping and protesting, out of the courtroom he once commanded.

Rachel told me later what happened to him. It was a cascade. His boss condemned him. Sergeant Omali and his partner, facing their own charges, turned on Pierce in a heartbeat. They described a longstanding agreement for him to “shore up” weak cases against “the usual suspects.”

My dad’s office opened a full-scale review of every case Pierce had ever prosecuted. The floodgates opened. Dozens of other people, people like me, people who didn’t have an AG for a father, had their cases reviewed. A man named Hector Gonzalez, serving 10 years, was exonerated. Pierce had suppressed video footage showing he was miles away. A woman named Sharona Jenkins, who lost her kids over a bogus charge, was cleared.

Pierce was disbarred. His wife divorced him. His own father, a powerful lawyer, refused to represent him.

Six months later, he stood in an orange jumpsuit. He pleaded guilty. The judge who used to have lunch with him looked down in disgust. “You prayed on the weak, the poor, the ‘nobodies’ you assumed would never be heard… you were a thousand times more dangerous.”

Eight years in state prison. I heard they assigned him to the prison library, surrounded by the law books he used to master. A fitting, cruel joke.

Rachel Berg, the public defender who was drowning, got a different offer. Six high-powered firms wanted her. She turned them all down. A week later, a letter came from my father. He was forming a new “Conviction Integrity Unit” to find the other victims, the other Pierces. He appointed Rachel to lead it. She accepted.

And me?

After the courtroom cleared, it was just me and my father. The first time we’d been in a room, just us, in over a year.

“You came,” I said. The words tasted like acid. “You came now.”

“Devon,” he said, his voice heavy with a guilt that had nothing to do with the law. “Why didn’t you call me? Why did you let it get this far?”

“Call you?” I laughed, but it came out like a sob. “Call you? And say what? ‘Hey Dad, remember me? The son you haven’t seen in a year? I’m in county, and they’re framing me.’ I didn’t want your help!”

My voice cracked. “That’s the system that killed Mom.”

He flinched. She died of cancer, but he’d been burying himself in his work, running for office, chasing a “better world” while abandoning his.

“I didn’t want to be ‘the Attorney General’s son’,” I cried, the tears finally coming. “I just wanted to be… just Devon. And this… this is what happens to ‘just Devon.’ They tried to bury me, Dad. If I wasn’t your son… if you hadn’t walked through those doors… I’d be on a bus to prison right now.”

He looked at me, the most powerful man in the state, and he looked broken. “You’re right,” he said. The words shocked me. “The system is broken. It’s built by men like Pierce. I’ve spent my whole life trying to fix it from the inside… But today… when I got that call, I didn’t come here as the AG. I didn’t care about the rules. I came here as your father. And I would have burned the whole building down to get to you.”

He closed the distance and pulled me into an embrace. A strong, desperate hug that was part apology, part rescue.

And for the first time in my life, I let him. I buried my face in his shoulder, and I sobbed. For the trial. For my mom. For the years of loneliness.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, too, son,” he whispered back. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. But I am now.”

The case was over. But for us, it was just beginning. We left the courtroom together, leaving the ruins of Leland Pierce’s life behind. It wasn’t just karma. It was a reckoning. But it leaves me with one terrifying question.

How many others are out there right now, who aren’t lucky enough to be the Attorney General’s son?