Chapter 26 The Trial – Belle
Three Months Later
“State your name for the record.”
“Belle Gallagher.”
The courtroom is packed. Media in the back rows. Victims filling the gallery. Federal prosecutors at their table with mountains of evidence. And there, at the defense table in an orange jumpsuit, Selena Harpsons.
She looks smaller than I remember. Ordinary. Just a woman in her sixties facing life in prison.
But when her pale eyes meet mine, I see the same cold calculation. The same absolute certainty that she’s smarter than everyone in this room.
“Miss Gallagher, you were a student at Shark Bay University. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” My voice carries across the courtroom. Steady. Strong. “I was sent there by my parents.”
“And during your time there, did you become aware of criminal activity?”
“Yes.”
The prosecutor, a sharp woman named Patricia Duff, nods. “Please describe what you witnessed.”
I’ve prepared for this. Rehearsed it with David and his team. But sitting here, with Selena watching, with other survivors in the gallery, knowing Max and Luna are waiting outside to give their own testimony, the words come easier than expected.
“Selena Harpsons ran a trafficking network through Shark Bay University. She used the school as a recruitment and control center for children of powerful families. Students were monitored constantly. Cataloged. Groomed for specific roles in the network.”
“Objection.” Selena’s lawyer stands. An expensive suit. Slicked back hair. “Speculation.”
“Overruled.” Judge Ramirez looks at me. “Continue, Miss Gallagher.”
“I have firsthand knowledge of the surveillance system. I discovered a hidden room in Mrs. Harpsons’ private office containing photographs of students dating back decades.
Each photo was annotated with personal information, psychological profiles, and notes about their potential usefulness to the network. ”
Duff pulls up images on the courtroom screens. Photos from Erik’s live stream. The gallery walls covered in faces. Children at parties. Students in private moments.
The jury shifts uncomfortably. Several people in the gallery gasp.
Selena’s expression doesn’t change.
“Can you identify any of these photographs?”
“Yes.” I point to the screen. “That’s me at age eleven. The annotation beside it details my family’s criminal activities and recommends me for intelligence training rather than direct exploitation.”
My voice doesn’t waver. I’ve had three months to process this. Three months of therapy. Three months of learning to separate my trauma from my testimony.
“And this one?” Duff switches images.
“Luna Queen at age thirteen. The notes describe her manipulation skills and recommend continued monitoring.”
“These annotations. Who wrote them?”
“Selena Harpsons. I recognize the handwriting from documents she showed me during my time at the academy.”
Duff continues. More photos. More evidence. Financial records proving payments between Selena and network members. Communications discussing student placements. Contracts for trafficking services.
Erik’s footage made all of this public. Viral within hours. No amount of money or influence could suppress it once it hit the internet.
Selena’s lawyer tries to discredit me during cross-examination. Brings up my family’s crimes. Suggests I’m trying to shift blame. Implies I was a willing participant.
I answer each question calmly. Factually. Let the evidence speak.
When I step down, Selena’s eyes follow me. That cold smile touches her lips.
She still thinks she’s won something.
Luna testifies next. I wait outside the courtroom with Max while she gives her testimony. We can hear her voice through the heavy doors, muffled but strong.
When she emerges hours later, her eyes are red but fierce. “Your turn,” she tells Max.
Max squeezes my hand once before heading inside.
Luna and I sit on the bench in the corridor. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say? We’ve both laid our trauma bare for a courtroom full of strangers. Both of us relived our worst moments for the sake of justice.
“I described the parties,” Luna finally says, her voice hollow.
“The drugging. The exploitation. The way Selena maintained control through fear and manipulation.” She looks at me.
“I told them about Erik. About how he died trying to expose this network. How he risked everything because he believed in protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves. ”
Her voice breaks. She pauses to gather herself.
“I told them Selena murdered him. Shot him in her office while he was documenting her crimes. Then she set fire to the building once the authorities came to destroy evidence and his body.” Luna’s hands ball into fists.
“She doesn’t get to walk away from that.
She doesn’t get to pretend this was business.
This was evil. And she needs to pay for every single life she destroyed. ”
I reach over. Take her hand. She squeezes back hard enough to hurt.
We sit like that until Max emerges. Then David goes in. Then hundreds of other victims over the following days.
The trial continues for five weeks. Former students. Staff members who were blackmailed into compliance. Parents who sent their children to Shark Bay, thinking it was a prestigious school, only to discover the truth too late.
Network members arrested at The Harvest testify against Selena in exchange for reduced sentences.
Senator Langston. Judge Harrington. CEOs and politicians and law enforcement officials.
All of them detailing how Selena coordinated placements, managed blackmail, and maintained the network’s structure.
The evidence is overwhelming. Damning. Irrefutable.
Erik’s live stream plays in court. Every juror watches as he documents the gallery. Reads annotations. Films contracts and financial records. His voice steady and determined right up until that terrible gunshot.
Several jurors cry. Luna has to leave the courtroom.
Selena shows no emotion. She sits perfectly still, perfectly composed, like she’s attending a tedious board meeting instead of her own trial for human trafficking and murder.
Her defense is weak. Claims she was coerced by higher-ups in the network. That she was following orders. That The Founder controlled everything and she was merely an administrator.
But the prosecution proves she initiated contacts. Made decisions. Profited extensively from trafficking operations. She wasn’t a pawn. She was a queen.
The verdict comes back unanimous.
Guilty on all counts.
Selena finally reacts. Not with tears or anger. With that cold smile. Like she knows something we don’t.
“This isn’t over,” she says as bailiffs lead her away. Not to anyone in particular. To everyone. “The network continues. The Founder remains. You’ve changed nothing.”
Judge Ramirez sentences her to life without parole. Multiple life sentences, actually. One for each murder, each trafficking charge, each count of exploitation.
Selena Harpsons will die in prison.
But her words echo anyway. The network continues.
Because she’s right. The trial exposed dozens of network members, but hundreds more remain hidden. Politicians resign, but their replacements might be compromised too. CEOs are arrested, but their companies continue operating.
Investigations span continents now. Interpol is involved. But powerful people are good at protecting themselves.
The Founder, whoever they are, remains untouched.
Still. This is progress. This is justice.
Erik didn’t die for nothing.
Max meets me outside the courthouse. He’s wearing a dark suit that makes his eyes look even more intense. His perfectly styled hair catches the afternoon sun. He looks exhausted and relieved and proud all at once.
“You did it,” he says, pulling me into his arms.
“We did it.” I breathe in his scent. Clean cologne and coffee. Familiar. Safe. “All of us.”
Luna appears beside us. David with her. They both look wrecked. Months of grief and anger and fighting for justice has taken its toll.
“It’s over,” Luna whispers. “She’s going to rot in prison.”
“Good.” David’s voice is hard. “She deserves worse.”
We stand there on the courthouse steps. Four survivors who brought down an architect. Who exposed a network. Who proved that even the most powerful predators can be held accountable.
Media swarms us. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing. We ignore them. We’re done performing. Done being specimens.
We’re free.
***
The apartment Max and I share is small. A one bedroom in Boston, close to where he’s taking business classes. The furniture is mostly secondhand. The kitchen is barely functional. But it’s ours.
No cameras. No surveillance. No one watching our every move.
Privacy feels like a luxury after months of testimony and media attention.
Max locks the door behind us. Tests the handle twice. A habit he’s developed since Shark Bay.
“We should celebrate,” he says, loosening his tie. “The verdict. The sentencing. Actually being done with all of this.”
“How do you want to celebrate?”
His dark eyes find mine. Heat flares in them. “I have some ideas.”
Months of trial prep left little time for intimacy. We’ve been living together, sharing a bed, but sex has been infrequent. Perfunctory. Both of us too stressed and exhausted to do more than seek basic comfort.
Tonight feels different. Tonight, we’re finally free of Selena’s shadow.
I cross to him. My hands find his tie, finishing what he started. “Tell me your ideas.”
“I was thinking dinner. Wine. Maybe a movie.” His voice drops lower. “Then I take you to bed and remind you what it’s like when we’re not preparing for trial testimony.”
“Skip to the last part.”
Max laughs. The sound is warm and genuine. “Eager?”
“Starving.” I push his suit jacket off his shoulders. “It’s been too long.”
“Agreed.” His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. “But I want to do this right. Want to take my time. Make you feel good.”
“Later.” My fingers work the buttons of his shirt. “Right now, I need fast. Hard. Anything that makes me feel alive instead of like a specimen being examined.”