The United States Courthouse at 500 Pearl Street felt like an ancient, marble-walled mausoleum built to entomb human trust.
It was 8:45 AM on Thursday.
Outside, a biting December wind whistled down Foley Square, swirling frozen sleet against the towering granite steps. Inside Courtroom 110, forty-foot ceilings trapped the sterile, heavy scent of floor wax, aged leather, and old paper. The gallery benches of dark oak were filled with dozens of spectators—financial press reporters, junior partners from Wall Street firms, and quiet watchers from the Department of Justice.
I sat at the defense counsel table, my back straight as a steel rod.
I wore a sharply structured black wool suit with gold-trimmed cuffs, paired with a high-necked white silk blouse. My dark hair was swept up into an imp
