23. Michael
Chapter twenty-three
Michael
F orty-eight hours. That's how long it had been since I saw his face.
The federal holding cell stripped me of everything but sensory input. The reek of industrial disinfectant, the scratch of prison cotton against my skin, and the endless fluorescent hum blurred into a haze of frustration. Now, an escort accompanied me as I shuffled down a long hall.
My tactical instincts documented the corridor's details—thirty-six steps long, two blind corners, and recessed doorways every twelve feet creating potential ambush points. "Eyes forward, McCabe." The marshal's voice at my side bounced off the polished floors.
I kept my spine straight, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me bend. I heard Dad's voice inside my head: Stand tall when they're watching, son. Especially then.
Then, I saw him.
Alex.
He was about a dozen steps ahead, led by another guard. He wore the same institutional jumpsuit, and it looked entirely wrong on him. He belonged in soft sweaters, denim shirts, and worn jeans, not government-issued orange.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of my footsteps, and our gazes locked.
A voice barked from somewhere to my left. "No communication."
It was too late to stop the conversation that passed between us in that glance. I wanted to drink in the sight of him, but the guards kept us moving, a steady mechanical procession toward whatever awaited us.
As our paths converged toward the same doorway, our shoulders brushed—a half-second of contact. I hadn't realized how touch-starved forty-eight hours could leave me until that moment.
My fingertips tingled with the need to reach for him, but the cuffs held firm. This brief proximity would have to be enough for now.
The courtroom was chaotic. After two days of isolation, the sudden press of humanity was almost overwhelming. Press packed the back rows. Protest chants seeped in through sealed windows: "Truth! Truth! Truth!"
I scanned the space until I found my brothers. Miles and Marcus were already seated at the defense table. Marcus caught my eye first. A muscle in his jaw twitched before he nodded.
While I continued to look around the gallery, I spotted Matthew. He sat ramrod straight beside Mom and Marcus's partner, James.
Matthew had shaved his usual scruff and dressed in what looked like Marcus's spare suit. Mom clutched his hand with white knuckles, her chin lifted in that same defiant angle all four of us had inherited from Dad.
It didn't take much observation to realize we had both supporters and detractors in the courtroom. A woman in the front row wore a t-shirt with Alex's face screen-printed on it, and the word Whistleblower spelled out beneath. Behind her, a man in a crisp suit glared with his mouth curved in disgust.
Alex walked ahead of me. The guards positioned us at the defense table—Miles and Marcus to my right, Alex to my left. They were close, but we weren't allowed to touch.
A reporter whispered from beyond the gallery rail. "Michael, was it worth it?"
Another voice questioned Alex. "Professor Kessler, did you know what you were exposing?"
I didn't answer and kept my eyes forward, shoulders squared. We had become many things to many people, but to each other, we were constant. That was the only truth that mattered at the moment.
"All rise."
The bailiff's voice sliced through the murmuring voices. Chairs scraped against the floor while everyone stood in unison.
The judge entered—a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes had surely seen decades of human failings parade before her bench. As she seated herself, she scanned the courtroom with clinical detachment.
"Be seated. The court is now in session. United States versus McCabe, McCabe, McCabe, and Kessler."
Alex tensed at the sound of his name. For our defense attorney, Marcus had secured a sharp-eyed woman named Blanchard.
Old habits die hard, and while the judge began her standard comments about procedure and decorum, I scanned the courtroom—not for exits, but for threats. The federal prosecutor sat rigidly at his table, surrounded by three assistants. Behind them, a cluster of men in identical dark suits watched.
The judge began the trial. "The charges before us today are as follows—"
Before she could complete her sentence, the double doors at the rear of the courtroom burst open with enough force that the hinges protested. Every head snapped toward the rear.
A U.S. Marshal strode down the center aisle. The man's face betrayed nothing as he approached the bench, a sealed envelope clutched in his gloved hand.
He spoke in a firm, respectful voice. "Your Honor, I apologize for the interruption. I received instructions to deliver this directly to you, and the message within is to take effect immediately."
The judge raised an eyebrow while she accepted the envelope. She broke the seal, unfolded the document inside, and began to read.
I thought I saw confusion spread across her face. Her eyes tracked back to the top of the page as she reread the document.
I glanced at Alex. He was already looking at me.
The judge folded the document and looked down at us. "This is an unprecedented moment. By executive order, this proceeding will cease."
The courtroom fell into complete silence before the judge continued. "A full presidential pardon has been issued for all four defendants, effective immediately."
First, a series of gasps rippled through the crowd, and then the courtroom erupted in bedlam. Cameras flashed, and reporters leaped to their feet.
One of the reporters shouted questions at the judge. She hammered her gavel against the bench in a futile attempt to restore order.
I froze, unable to process the words that had just changed the trajectory of our lives. I waited for someone to reveal the trick. Or, surely, there was fine print. Nothing in recent days had prepared me for mercy.
Our attorney clutched my shoulder. "It's real. I thought this might happen. We heard rumblings minutes before arriving in court. The President has expressed absolute opposition to Asphodel, and the details are out in the open.
I turned toward Alex. He was already on his feet, trying to move toward me. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
The chaos around us faded to white noise. I buried my face against his neck, breathing him in.
Our guards froze, uncertain what to do as we pressed up against each other.
The judge cleared her throat. "Unshackle them. These men are free to go."
The marshal closest to me fumbled with his keys. I reluctantly stepped back from Alex, just enough to extend my wrists. The cuffs fell away with a click. I rubbed the raw skin beneath, sensation flooding back in painful waves.
Alex winced as they removed his restraints, with his slender wrists marked with red welts. I reached out, and we held each other in a proper hug.
The courtroom continued to churn with activity. Reporters shouted into their phones. The prosecutor gathered his papers with fury showing in red blotches on his face.
Miles stood beside Marcus. My older brother caught my eye and shook his head in wonder.
A rare crooked smile spread across his face. "So, we're not going to prison." The expression shaved years off his features, reminding me of the brother who'd taught me how to ride a bike a lifetime ago.
Miles simply whispered, "Fuck."
Alex looked at the three of us. "What happens now?"
I had no answer. We had been living moment to moment for days. The future now stretching before us seemed endless.
Matthew, Mom, and James pushed through the crowd.
Matthew reached us first, pulling Miles into a hug, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Mom was right behind him, pressing her hands to my cheeks like she needed to convince herself I was real.
Then came James—eyes wet, lips tight, his arm reaching for Marcus. No words passed between them—only a rough pull into a massive hug. Marcus clung back fiercely.
James congratulated our brother. "You held it together."
Marcus exhaled, a laugh folded inside the sound. "Barely."
Alex stood nearby, watching it all like he wasn't sure where he belonged in the crush of emotion. Then, Mom turned to him. "Come here."
Alex let out a quiet, shaky breath when she hugged him and leaned in like it broke something open inside.
Our attorney gathered her papers into her briefcase. "Now, you walk out those doors as free men. The press will be rabid, but you're not required to say anything. Also, be aware this isn't entirely over. You will likely receive subpoenas to testify in congressional hearings."
I nodded, but the words sounded distant. My focus was on the warmth of Alex beside me. They had tried to silence us, but it didn't work. We were survivors—witnesses.
For the first time since that night on the beach in Tahiti, I imagined there would be a tomorrow.