Richard’s hand shot out. He reached for my phone, his fingers inches from the glowing screen. The messy-haired man in the grey hoodie was speaking, his voice tinny but clear in the dead-silent room.
“I did it,” the man on the screen said. “Richard Vance told me to bypass the filtration system. He told me to dump the untreated runoff into the Oak Creek reservoir. He said the fines were cheaper than the repairs.”
Richard’s hand slammed down on the table. His palm hit the wood with a loud, cracking sound. His phone slid across the polished surface and hit the floor.
“Objection!” Richard shouted. His voice was no longer a dull drone. It was a scream. It bounced off the white vertical blinds, sharp and ugly. “This is a deepfake! It is a digitally altered fabrication! Strike it from the record!”
The court reporter looked at me. She didn’t type. She just held her hands over her keyboard, her eyes wide.
“It’s not a deepfake, Richard,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It was perfectly level. I looked at the judge, a stern woman with silver hair and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Your Honor, this is a verified video deposition of Leo Torres, the former lead engineer for Apex Chemical.”
Richard lunged forward. He grabbed the edge of the table, leaning into my space. I could smell his expensive scotch and pure rage.
“You’re disbarred, Maya,” he spat. His face was pale, sweating under the harsh lights. “You’re a junior associate. You don’t have the authority to submit remote testimony without a 48-hour notice. I will have your license revoked before lunch.”
The other men in dark suits at the opposing table shifted in their leather chairs. They looked at Richard, then at me. They were calculating. They were realizing the ship was sinking.
“Actually, Richard,” I said. I didn’t step back. I kept my eyes locked on his. “It’s not a remote deposition.”
Richard froze. His hand was still hovering over my phone. The angry purple in his face faded to a sickly, pale gray.
“What?” he whispered.
“It’s not a recording,” I said. I tapped the screen again. The video didn’t loop. The messy-haired man, Leo, blinked. He looked around his room. He looked directly into the camera lens.
“Leo,” I said. “Can you hear me?”
On the screen, Leo nodded. “I can hear you, Maya. I’m here.”
The room went completely dead. The hum of the air conditioning suddenly sounded like a jet engine.
“It’s a live feed,” I said. I looked at the judge. “Leo Torres is not in Gary, Indiana. He is in the conference room directly adjacent to this courtroom. He is sitting with two agents from the FBI.”
Richard’s mouth opened and closed. He looked like a fish gasping for air. He looked at the heavy oak doors at the back of the room.
“You… you lied to me,” Richard stammered. His voice was barely a rasp. “You told me he was in hiding. You told me you couldn’t find him.”
“I lied to you,” I agreed. “Because if I told you I found him, you would have had him killed. Just like you tried to do to the journalist in Toledo.”
The heavy oak doors at the back of the room swung open.
The sound of the hinges echoed through the room. Two men walked in. They didn’t wear dark suits. They wore dark blue windbreakers with FBI printed in bold yellow letters across the back. They moved with a quiet, terrifying efficiency, cutting through the rows of empty wooden benches.
The lead agent, a tall woman with a sharp jawline, walked right up to the table. She didn’t look at me. She looked at Richard.
“Richard Vance,” she said. Her voice was flat, professional. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit environmental terrorism, obstruction of justice, and racketeering.”
Richard didn’t fight. He didn’t scream. The arrogant energy that had fueled him for the last twenty years suddenly evaporated. He looked at the white blinds, then at the stack of 400-page briefs, then at the floor.
He held out his wrists.
The metal handcuffs clicked. The sound was sharp and final.
The agents marched him down the aisle. The other men in dark suits stayed seated. They didn’t look at Richard. They just gathered their papers and looked at their shoes. The heavy oak doors swung shut behind them, cutting off the noise.
The room was quiet. Just the hum of the HVAC and the tinny sound of Leo’s voice still coming from my phone.
I picked up the phone. I ended the call. The screen went black.
I looked at the judge. She took off her reading glasses. She looked at the stack of files, then at me.
“Ms. Lin,” she said softly. “I think we have enough for a summary judgment.”
I nodded. I packed my briefcase. I walked out of the deposition room, down the long marble hallway, and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the courthouse.
The afternoon sun hit my face, warm and bright, and I watched the traffic light turn green.