Chapter 29 #2
For a moment, nothing is said.
“Mr. Hamilton is in a meeting and cannot take calls from... this origin.”
I drop my voice. Taking a deep breath, knowing I’m lucky the call was even accepted.
“Listen carefully. I don’t know if you’re new or just stupid, but you’re going to do exactly what I say.
You will tell your boss that Maya Fisher is on the line.
And you will tell him he can either accept this call now—or I’ll use every remaining minute to talk to anyone who’ll listen about my affair with the former president of the same company that’s currently signing your paychecks. ”
“One moment,” he says finally.
Hold music fills the line. The seconds drag on.
“Ms. Fisher,” Jonathan’s voice finally comes through. It sounds as cold and controlled as I remember. “Whatever you think you’re doing—”
“Relax,” I interrupt. “I’m not threatening you. I’m inviting you to a...friendly conversation. And I don’t have much time, so you’re going to listen.”
I can almost feel the balance shift.
“Paris,” I say. “Last August.”
I stop there. His breathing falters. His hesitation tells me everything I need to know.
“What do you want?” he asks, his tone less certain now.
I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the cold metal of the phone. “You’ll come see me this week. Some things shouldn’t be discussed on a monitored line. Bring a competent lawyer, Jonathan. A criminal one.”
I exhale and almost dare to smile.
“We have a lot to discuss.”
October
There’s no audience or drama here. Just the sound of papers shuffling.
Eight months. Eight months since I walked through doors that only open inward. And to think I believed that with the expensive lawyer Jonathan so… generously secured for me, this would resolve itself in the blink of an eye.
An arrogant miscalculation. Money accelerates certain processes, but the law keeps its own time. It doesn’t move faster for people like me.
It was easier to endure each day believing I was, at least technically, closer to escaping that place.
The judge adjusts his glasses and goes over the papers, reading and then looking back to check something again. When he finally looks up at me, I can’t read his expression.
“Maya Fisher.”
Hearing my own name feels weird these days. Like it doesn’t even belong to me anymore.
“The court acknowledges that the defendant has remained in federal custody for approximately eight months pending resolution of this matter.”
He waits a second before speaking.
“That period was not insignificant.”
My attorney doesn’t react. He already knows what’s coming. I hold my breath anyway.
“The evidence demonstrates that while the defendant’s actions constitute serious federal offenses, the direct financial impact was mitigated. There was no corporate collapse. No systemic market risk.”
“The court has also reviewed the reports submitted by the defense.”
My stomach twists into a knot.
“These evaluations indicate that the defendant began therapeutic treatment during her period of custody and has demonstrated awareness of rigid behavioral patterns and defense mechanisms that contributed to her decision-making. This does not absolve the defendant of criminal responsibility, but it is relevant to the assessment of recidivism risk.”
My attorney inclines his head. Barely perceptible.
“I have also considered the defendant’s lack of prior criminal history and her cooperation with the investigation. That said, the nature of the offense requires a clear response from this court.”
The judge folds his hands atop the dark wood.
“The sentence imposed is ten months of custody.”
For a suspended second, panic takes my body. I break into a cold sweat. Ten more months.
My attorney’s hand brushes my arm.
“However,” the judge says, not missing a beat, “with credit for time served, your sentence is considered finished.”
Time served. I can finally breathe.
“Nonetheless, release will not be immediate. The remaining sixty days shall be served in a residential reentry center, a halfway house, for monitored reintegration, pursuant to Bureau of Prisons protocol. Following final release, the defendant shall be subject to three years of supervised release.”
Now he looks directly at me.
“As a mandatory condition, the defendant shall engage in continuous therapy and submit monthly reports to her probation officer. The court finds that the dismantling of the defendant’s established behavioral patterns and defense mechanisms is essential to rehabilitation.”
Rehabilitation. Easier said than done, but if it’s the cost to leave the shithole… I’m in.
“During this period, the defendant is prohibited from serving, directly or indirectly, in any executive or fiduciary capacity—including consulting, brokerage, or access to corporate data—for a period of eight years.”
Eight fucking years. It’s not prison, but it’s an exile all the same. For someone like me who was just starting a career, it’s the death of any plan or chance I could have had.
“A monetary fine shall also be imposed in the amount reflected in the record.”
The number passes through me without impact. At this point, money is symbolic. Jonathan will handle it.
“Any violation of these conditions will result in immediate return to federal custody. You are dismissed.”
I’m escorted out, but not the way I was before. No cuffs or hands forcing my back. I walk on legs that don’t yet trust the ground beneath them.
Two months. In two months, I am free. But I won’t return as who I was. And maybe that is the real sentence.
December
My world is now reduced to a humiliating checklist: sign the logbook, attend mandatory counseling where I nod at the correct moments, obey a curfew that treats me like a delinquent teenager instead of a grown woman. I sleep in a room with three strangers.
I’m required to look for work, but only positions that don’t violate the judge’s eight-year ban on my career, as if I could accidentally wander back into power by shelving boxes or refilling coffee urns.
So I hunt for jobs beneath my skill set and education.
Jobs designed to keep me busy, and that won’t take me anywhere in life.
Time drags here. All that’s left is the noise in my head.
All these months of my life, wasted trading one hellhole for another—with so little information filtering in from the outside—have made one thing impossible to keep dismissing: how much I lost. Pouring my time, life, and energy into something that stripped everything from me was a stupid choice. I should have been smarter than that.
I am smarter than that. But I’d be lying if I said I regret it. I would do it all again.
I just wouldn’t perform. I would make Colin fall in love with me. I would make him choose me for who I am, not for the version I curated to fit his expectations.
Thinking about him hurts. Thinking about Phillip hurts even more. Maybe that’s my pattern. The men who kissed my feet never held my interest. The men I idealized discarded me like yesterday’s news.
But it was losing the last pieces of my family that hurt more than anything, especially when even they gave up on me.
Uncle Thomas and Chloe visited me during my first week in prison. Aunt Cynthia didn’t, and I don’t blame her. I was feral with them. Out of control. “If you’re not here to tell me you’re paying for a real lawyer, don’t bother coming back,” I spat through the glass.
Chloe only shook her head. My uncle had tears in his eyes when he turned away. He wished me luck. Said he hoped whatever I’d done had been worth it. It wasn’t.
And they never reached out again in all the months that followed.
I press the phone to my ear and wait for the call to connect, already expecting rejection.
“Hello?”
The sound of his voice makes me close my eyes.
“Uncle,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I add, quickly, “Please don’t hang up.”
“Hello, Maya.” His voice is cold. Nothing like the man who treated me like a daughter and who I thought of as a father.
I close my eyes again and rest my forehead against the cold wall of the common area, trying to block out the sound of the blaring TV.
“Is Aunt Cynthia there?” I ask. “If Chloe is too, put it on speaker. I want to talk to all of you.”
I hear the phone being shifted. When he confirms, I start.
“I found a good lawyer. My trial was in October. I’ve been in a residential reentry center since then, and in just over two weeks, I’ll be free on supervised release. Being here forced me to think about a lot of things.”
I take a breath, swallowing the pride that has always been my primary source of nourishment.
“And I realized I never apologized. Or thanked you. For always being there for me.”
When they don’t say anything, I keep going. I confess every wrong. I thank them for each kindness. I apologize especially to Uncle Thomas, the one I manipulated most, crying on cue, exploiting his guilt over my mother’s death.
I’m running out of time. The call is about to end, so I just ask for forgiveness.
It’s Chloe who finally speaks. “We already forgave you, Maya,” my cousin says gently. “We always wanted what was best for you. We just couldn’t keep supporting the path you chose for your life.”
She hesitates. “Can we pick you up when you get out?”
I smile, holding back tears. Real ones this time.
“Yes, please. I’d really like that.”
I hang up and wipe my face, forcing my head high. At least now I have something to look forward to in my last days in this hellhole.
And it won’t hurt to have somewhere to land once I’m out. The thought brings a smile to my lips as I head back to my room.