Chapter 7 - The Plea Deal
The trial was scheduled to begin in October at the U.S. District Court in Indianapolis, but the defense didn't even make it to opening statements.
Faced with ironclad physical evidence, high-definition security footage of the household, medical records documenting systematic abuse, and forty-five separate counts of wire fraud and embezzlement, Derek’s court-appointed defense attorney advised his client to take a plea deal.
On a crisp, breezy morning in late September, Abigail walked into the federal courthouse on the arm of her father, flanked by federal marshals. She wore a sharp, tailored navy blue pantsuit, walking steadily on her crutches with her cast now replaced by a sleek medical boot.
In the courtroom gallery, sitting in the front row, were Derek, Margaret, and Walter.
They looked unrecognizable. The arrogant, untouchable snobbery that had defined the Lawson family had been replaced by hollow, terrified eyes and rumpled orange jumpuits. Margaret’s hair was unstyled and graying at the roots; she looked ten years older. Derek stared at the floor, his shoulders slumped, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
When the federal judge entered the courtroom, the bailiff called the court to order.
"In the case of United States versus Derek Lawson, Margaret Lawson, and Walter Lawson..." the judge’s voice boomed through the mahogany-paneled room.
The proceedings were swift and brutal.
Because of the overwhelming weight of the evidence and his complete lack of cooperation, Derek Lawson was sentenced to twelve years in federal prison without the possibility of parole for five years, specifically factoring in the aggravated domestic battery charge and interstate wire fraud. Margaret Lawson received eight years for financial conspiracy and coercion. Walter Lawson, whose participation was deemed secondary under spousal duress, received a suspended sentence and two years of supervised probation.
As the marshals led Derek away in chains, he caught a glimpse of Abigail sitting calmly in the front row of the prosecution's advisory section.
He stopped for a fraction of a second, his lips trembling, a desperate, pathetic plea flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something—perhaps begging for mercy, perhaps uttering one last curse.
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Abigail didn't flinch. She didn't smile, and she didn't look away. She simply looked at him the way a scientist looks at a specimen under a microscope—with total, absolute indifference.
Derek lowered his head in shame as the marshals shoved him through the heavy wooden exit doors.
