ISABELLA
The arraignment was a media circus.
I sat in the back row of the federal courthouse, Alexander's hand warm and steady in mine as my father was led into the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit that made his skin look sallow and old. The man who had once commanded boardrooms and charity galas now shuffled between two federal marshals, his silver hair disheveled and his shoulders bent with defeat.
I barely recognized him.
"You don't have to watch this," Alexander murmured against my ear, his thumb stroking across my knuckles in gentle circles that helped anchor me to something real and solid.
"Yes, I do," I replied quietly, unable to look away as my father took his place at the defendant's table beside a court-appointed attorney who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The courtroom was packed with reporters, their cameras and notebooks trained on every detail of Winston Caldwell's downfall. I recognized several faces from Boston's media elite, people who had attended my galler
