“This is some kind of mistake,” I repeated over and over, my voice rising in desperation.
By evening, the mistake had turned into an absolute nightmare. They found a program for unauthorized transfers on my work computer. On my home computer, they discovered search queries about offshore accounts. Then, they uncovered a Cayman Islands account in my name, where part of the stolen money had been routed. My heart sank as I realized I was being framed.
When they brought me home with a search warrant, I looked to Alvin for support. But his expression was cold, bewildered. “Naomi, what have you done? How could you?”
His words cut through me, sharp and unforgiving. I didn’t understand then. It wasn’t until the preliminary hearing that everything began to unravel. I spotted Alvin whispering to the district attorney, and my heart sank further. And there was Tiana Mosley, a former dancer Alvin had once defended. We had laughed over dinners, shared drinks, but in that courthouse hallway, she looked at me with barely concealed triumph.
Everything became painfully clear when Alvin refused to hire me a good lawyer, citing a conflict of interest. Instead, I got an inexperienced public defender who didn’t even challenge the obviously fabricated evidence. I was sentenced to seven years for large-scale financial fraud while Alvin sat in the front row, holding Tiana’s hand.
The Grit of Survival
“Did you drift off again?” Jasmine asked gently, bringing me back to the present.
“Yeah.” I rubbed my temples, hoping to ease the ache. “Sometimes I feel like part of me is still there in that courtroom.”
Jasmine turned off the highway onto a residential street. North Charleston had changed over the years. New buildings popped up like mushrooms after a rain, while old neighborhoods had been scraped clean and rebuilt. We drove through the city center, the familiar landmarks ghosting past.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jasmine said as she opened the door to her apartment. “It’s safe here. Nobody knows you’re coming.”
The apartment was small but cozy. Theater props and makeup kits were scattered everywhere—evidence of Jasmine’s profession as a costume designer for a local theater company. I breathed in the scent of paint and fabric, feeling a flicker of normality in a world I no longer recognized.
