Chapter 9
The defense case lasted three days.
It was pathetic.
They called character witnesses.
Maids.
Gardeners.
Business associates.
All saying what wonderful, generous people the Lawsons were.
How they gave to charity.
How they helped little old ladies cross the street.
None of them could explain the emails.
Or the bank records.
Or the bruises.
Or the two men in the hospital hallway who had already pled guilty and testified against Blake.
The highlight of the defense was when Margot Lawson took the stand in her own defense.
She wore a simple black dress.
No jewelry.
Hair pulled back tight.
She played the grieving matriarch perfectly.
“These allegations are absurd,” she told the jury, tears in her eyes. “My family has given this state so much. We have built hospitals. Funded scholarships. Fed the hungry. And for what? For a soldier with a grudge and a daughter with mental problems to destroy everything we’ve built? My boys would never hurt anyone. Never. They are good boys. Good men.”
The prosecutor stood up for cross-examination.
He was quiet.
Calm.
Deadly.
“Mrs. Lawson,” he said. “You say your sons are good men. Can you explain this text message from Blake Lawson to his brother, sent the night before Emma was found in the hospital? It says: She won’t sign the NDA. I’ll make her sign it if I have to break every bone in her body.”
Margot’s face twitched.
“Taken out of context,” she said.
“Of course,” the prosecutor said. “And this email from you to your husband, sent two days after the wedding? It says: The girl is weak. She’ll be easy to break. We just need to isolate her from the mother first.”
“Objection!” the defense shouted. “That’s taken out of context!”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
The prosecutor walked closer to the stand.
“Mrs. Lawson,” he said. “On the night of October fourteenth, you were seen by three witnesses entering the guest house on your estate at 11:00 p.m. Emma was locked inside. You stayed for forty minutes. When you left, you were heard to say: She’s learned her lesson now. What exactly did you do in those forty minutes, Mrs. Lawson?”
Margot’s mask cracked.
“Nothing!” she shouted. “I did nothing! She deserved everything she got! She came into my family! She thought she was good enough for my son! She was trash! White trash with a soldier mother who thought her medals meant something! We are the Lawsons! We are better than her! Better than all of you!”
She stood up.
Screaming now.
Spittle flying.
The jury stared in horror.
This was the real Margot Lawson.
Not the philanthropist.
Not the grieving mother.
A monster.
“You think you can judge us?” she shrieked. “You think twelve nobodies in a box can tell us what to do? We own this state! We always have! If that little bitch had just done what she was told, kept her mouth shut, and spread her legs when my son wanted, none of this would have happened! It’s her fault! All of it! She made us do it!”
The judge banged his gavel.
“Order! ORDER IN THE COURT!”
Marshals pulled Margot off the stand.
She was still screaming as they dragged her out.
The defense attorney put his head in his hands.
The trial was over.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
When they came back, the forewoman stood up.
The judge asked the question.
“How do you find the defendant, Arthur Lawson, on count one, racketeering?”
“Guilty.”
“Count two, conspiracy to commit fraud?”
“Guilty.”
“Count three, money laundering?”
“Guilty.”
On and on it went.
Thirty-seven counts against Arthur.
All guilty.
Twenty-nine counts against Margot.
All guilty.
Forty-one counts against Blake—including assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder.
All guilty.
Eighteen counts against Preston.
All guilty.
The courtroom erupted.
Women in the gallery cheered.
Reporters ran for the doors.
I held Emma.
She sobbed into my shoulder.
“It’s over,” she whispered. “It’s really over.”
I kissed the top of her head.
“Yes, baby,” I said. “It’s over.”
The sentencing was held a month later.
The judge was brutal.
He called the Lawson family “a cancer on this state.”
He called their crimes “the most despicable display of arrogance and corruption I have ever seen in thirty years on the bench.”
He handed down the sentences:
Arthur Lawson: Life without parole.
Margot Lawson: Life without parole.
Blake Lawson: Life without parole, plus an additional forty years to run consecutively.
Preston Lawson: Sixty years.
No chance of parole.
No time off for good behavior.
They would die in prison.
Every single one of them.
As the marshals led them away, Preston looked at Emma.
For the first time, there was no arrogance.
No anger.
Just fear.
May you like
And regret.
Too late.
