The plastic bit into my wrists as the agent secured them behind my back. The position was immediately uncomfortable—shoulders rotated backward, balance compromised. I glanced at Michael, watching him submit to the same procedure without resistance.
The four of us stood with bound hands, surrounded by the machinery of federal authority. We weren't fugitives or terrorists. We weren't heroes, either. We were witnesses to a moment when democracy was confronting its darkest reflection. We had to wait to see whether it chose transparency over power.
Chapter twenty-three
Michael
Forty-eighthours.That'showlong it had been since I saw his face.
The federal holding cell stripped me of everything but sensory input. The reek of industrial disinfectant, the scratch of prison cotton against my skin, and the endless fluorescent hum blurred into a haze of frustration. Now, an escort accompanied me as I shuffled down a long hall.
My tactical instincts documented the corridor's details—thirty-six steps long, two blind corners, and recessed doorways every twelve feet creating potential ambush points. "Eyes forward, McCabe." The marshal's voice at my side bounced off the polished floors.
I kept my spine straight, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me bend. I heard Dad's voice inside my head:Stand tall when they're watching, son. Especially then.
Then, I saw him.
Alex.
He was about a dozen steps ahead, led by another guard. He wore the same institutional jumpsuit, and it looked entirely wrong on him. He belonged in soft sweaters, denim shirts, and worn jeans, not government-issued orange.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of my footsteps, and our gazes locked.
A voice barked from somewhere to my left. "No communication."
It was too late to stop the conversation that passed between us in that glance. I wanted to drink in the sight of him, but the guards kept us moving, a steady mechanical procession toward whatever awaited us.
As our paths converged toward the same doorway, our shoulders brushed—a half-second of contact. I hadn't realized how touch-starved forty-eight hours could leave me until that moment.
My fingertips tingled with the need to reach for him, but the cuffs held firm. This brief proximity would have to be enough for now.
The courtroom was chaotic. After two days of isolation, the sudden press of humanity was almost overwhelming. Press packed the back rows. Protest chants seeped in through sealed windows: "Truth! Truth! Truth!"
I scanned the space until I found my brothers. Miles and Marcus were already seated at the defense table. Marcus caught my eye first. A muscle in his jaw twitched before he nodded.
While I continued to look around the gallery, I spotted Matthew. He sat ramrod straight beside Mom and Marcus's partner, James.
Matthew had shaved his usual scruff and dressed in what looked like Marcus's spare suit. Mom clutched his hand with white knuckles, her chin lifted in that same defiant angle all four of us had inherited from Dad.
It didn't take much observation to realize we had both supporters and detractors in the courtroom. A woman in the front row wore a t-shirt with Alex's face screen-printed on it, and the wordWhistleblowerspelled out beneath. Behind her, a man in a crisp suit glared with his mouth curved in disgust.
Alex walked ahead of me. The guards positioned us at the defense table—Miles and Marcus to my right, Alex to my left. They were close, but we weren't allowed to touch.
A reporter whispered from beyond the gallery rail. "Michael, was it worth it?"
Another voice questioned Alex. "Professor Kessler, did you know what you were exposing?"
I didn't answer and kept my eyes forward, shoulders squared. We had become many things to many people, but to each other, we were constant. That was the only truth that mattered at the moment.
"All rise."
The bailiff's voice sliced through the murmuring voices. Chairs scraped against the floor while everyone stood in unison.
The judge entered—a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes had surely seen decades of human failings parade before her bench. As she seated herself, she scanned the courtroom with clinical detachment.
"Be seated. The court is now in session. United States versus McCabe, McCabe, McCabe, and Kessler."
Alex tensed at the sound of his name. For our defense attorney, Marcus had secured a sharp-eyed woman named Blanchard.
