Chapter 1: Judgement Day

“Guilty on all charges.”

No pounding of the gavel against the table, no jeering from the viewer’s gallery, and absolutely no photography. Just four words, plain and softly spoken by the judge, reading from a slip of paper handed to him by the jury foreman, four words to decide my fate. I nodded my head once, making sure to make eye contact with the judge as I did so to acknowledge my understanding of the verdict, but I did not speak. There was nothing left to be said, by this point.

My advocate had done his very best; earned every coin of his considerable £800 an hour fee. He’d done his best over the course of an eight month trial, done his best to divert and defend and deny, but sometimes you can do everything right and still lose; in words of an intrepid explorer of the stars, that’s not weakness, that’s just life.

“On behalf of His Majesty’s Crown Court, we thank the jurors for their time and attention throughout the course of these lengthy proceedings. To isolate oneself from the eyes of the world is no easy feat in the modern day, especially in a case such as this, so close to the public eye and the public purse. Accordingly, all jurors here today, who have served the full term, shall be excused from further summons for a duration no less than ten years.”

I did my best to keep my face straight; it wouldn’t do to show my erstwhile contempt for my fellow man, not here and now, lest I be charged with a rather different form of contempt.

“Due to the complexity and number of factors to be considered, I have requested a pre-sentencing report be compiled. Preliminary submissions are due in two weeks time. As part of the preparation, the defendant is to undertake an interview with an officer of the probation service, at a mutually agreed time no more than a month from now.”

Just in time to spend Christmas in prison. How lovely.

“It is my view to hold a sentencing hearing in November, before the year begins to wind down, to this effect, I will pencil in my diary for 1PM on Wednesday the 20th. Until then, court is adjourned.”

I joined the rest of the court, rising and bowing to the judge as he departed, before I too headed for the exit, my advocate a step behind me. Despite the unfortunate verdict, I was still a free man where it counted, my bail conditions notwithstanding. Because my crimes were strictly white-collar in nature, neither violent nor overtly distressing to the victims, the court had taken a light touch with me. I’d had to surrender my passport, to ensure I didn’t decide to flee the country, but other than that I’d had no obligations imposed upon me except the obvious expectation that I attend court when called.

As always, a throng of paparazzi stalked the front of the court; there were already reporters inside, but cameras were not allowed inside the building. Now, however, they were free to assault me with a multitude of flashing lights. I paused in my strife, just for a moment, turning the cameras and giving them a brief staredown. Not enough to seem arrogant, but sufficient to ensure the newspapers got my good side for tomorrow’s front page.

Oh, I would definitely be on the front page; after all, it wasn’t every day one of the nation’s biggest pension funds was revealed to be emptier than a telemarketer’s soul. I’d had a good three decades since rising to the helm of the fund, overseeing record profits again and again, through thick and thin, three wars and two recessions in all. Really, it should have been obvious I was emptying the pot, robbing Peter to pay Paul. Nobody can guarantee 10% profit margins for thirty years. I’d love to claim to be some never before seen genius of deceit, but honestly I think plenty of people knew, they just didn’t want to flip the table, not when they were also profiting off the fund by association.

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That’s the funny thing with pension funds, you see; once you put money in, you can’t take it out again before you reach a certain age, not without incurring massive tax penalties that no sane person would want. Thanks to that, I was able to keep the ship afloat while the banks toppled; because most of the financially illiterate masses couldn’t panic withdraw enough to bring us down. Alas, despite my wisdom, I failed to predict a total collapse of the real estate market, in which the fund had invested heavily. Even that wasn’t enough to bankrupt us outright, but it made the board jittery enough to call for an audit of our books, and well, there just wasn’t any money left.

“So, how many years am I facing?” I asked my advocate, once we were both on the road, well clear of the court parking lot and bothersome cameras.

“It’s not looking good,” he replied, giving the understatement of the century. “You’re a first-time offender for non-violent crime, but the sheer amount of money missing weighs heavily against you, as does the fact you’ve affected primarily the old and vulnerable. You could get as little as seven years under the guidelines, but I’d be surprised if you saw less than ten.”

“I see,” our journey descended into silence after that, because what really was there to say?

I was already sixty-three years old, and I’d be sixty-four at sentencing. Add on a minimum of ten years, extrapolate that against the average male life expectancy and the conditions in prison, and it wasn’t looking good. Really, there was only one sensible solution for me, all things considered.

“Here’s your stop,” I parked the car by the sidewalk, letting my advocate out.

He lived close to the court, directly between it and my house, so it was convenient for me to pick him up myself on the way there, which gave us a bit more time to talk on the trot.

“Say, about the appeals process…” he began, before I cut him off with a shake of the head.

“I think I need a night to sleep on things,” I told him. “Get my head in order. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can plan strategy at the usual time?”

“Sure, sure, that works,” my advocate agreed, scribbling the time into the little red notebook that never left his shirt pocket.

“Thank you,” I gave him a smile as I started the engine again. “For everything.”

Because he’d truly done his best for me, like none others ever had, with no ulterior motives beyond earning his fee. What a refreshing change from the endless hangers on, the gold diggers looking for a nest egg and the teary eyed lads carrying fake paternity tests. As if I’d ever been careless enough for romance or children; did they think my money just grew on trees?

Still, the thought brought an impish grin to my face as I made for the main road; I’d left half a dozen wills back home, you see, all dated to the exact same day but with different amounts apportioned in each, between each of my distant relatives. They’d be spending years at minimum fighting it out in the courts; with each other and the Crown both, as they sought to cash in on my ill-gotten gains. Even I couldn’t guess how that saga would end, the only certainty at all were the copious legal fees to be paid out on all sides: a final gift to my dear advocate. No, I’d lived a solitary life, of glitz and glamour and stolen millions, and even now at the end of it, I only had one regret. It was a shame I’d never get to see tomorrow’s newspapers, for they were sure to be the scoop of the year.

A manic grin still etched on my face, I jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, colliding full on with an incoming lorry, and then there was darkness.