Chapter 7
The next month was a blur.
We fired 17 mid-level managers who’d helped Robert cover up his fraud.
We froze all of Robert’s and Sarah’s assets—every house, every car, every bank account, every designer purse Sarah had bought with stolen money.
We acquired my startup, moved the team into a shiny new office on the 12th floor of Carter Global, and rolled out our fraud detection software to every division.
Within three weeks, we’d found another $8 million in missing money.
The stock started climbing back up.
By the end of the month, it was higher than it had been before Robert’s “death.”
But the hardest part was still ahead.
The trial.
Robert’s trial was scheduled to start on a Monday in mid-August, in the downtown Dallas criminal courthouse.
Sarah had taken a plea deal two weeks prior—testifying against Robert in exchange for five years in prison, with eligibility for parole after two, plus ten years’ probation, and a lifetime ban from ever working in finance or holding any position at Carter Global.
She’d cried on the stand during the plea hearing, saying she’d been manipulated, that she was young and stupid, that Robert had threatened to cut her off from the family trust if she didn’t help him.
I didn’t buy it.
But the prosecution had taken the deal.
Her testimony was the final nail in Robert’s coffin.
I was the first witness called on the first day of the trial.
Robert’s defense lawyer was a famous guy from Houston—expensive, sharp, known for getting guilty rich guys off on technicalities.
He spent the first hour of cross-examination trying to paint me as a spoiled, drug-addled, mentally unstable kid who’d helped his dad fake his own death to frame poor, innocent Uncle Robert.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Carter,” he said, leaning over the witness stand, his voice dripping with fake sympathy, “that you have a history of erratic behavior? That you dropped out of business school after a nervous breakdown? That you spent $200,000 on partying in Las Vegas in 2024? That your own father had to bail you out of jail after a bar fight that same year?”
The jury stared at me.
I could feel their judgment.
I glanced over at Robert, sitting at the defense table, wearing a tailored suit, his hair cut, his face clean-shaven, looking like a respectable businessman, not a murderer.
He was smiling.
He thought this was working.
I took a deep breath, looking straight at the lawyer.
“All of that is true,” I said, loud and clear. “I did drop out of business school. Because I wanted to build my own company, not just take over my dad’s. I did spend $200,000 in Vegas. It was my 25th birthday. I was with my friends. I’d just closed the first big funding round for my startup. I earned that money. And yes, I got in a bar fight. A guy was groping a waitress. I punched him. I spent six hours in jail. I apologized to the waitress. I paid her medical bills. I did community service. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not ashamed of it either. I was 25. I made mistakes. But I’m not crazy. And I didn’t fake my dad’s death.”
The lawyer smirked, turning to the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “You heard him. A history of bad decisions. Erratic behavior. Is this the kind of person you can trust? Is his word enough to put a man in prison for the rest of his life?”
He turned back to me, his smile getting sharper.
“Isn’t it true,” he said, “that you stood to inherit 100% of your father’s $2.3 billion estate if he died? That you were in debt up to your eyeballs from your failing startup? That you and your father concocted this whole ‘back from the dead’ stunt to steal your uncle’s shares, to take over the company, to pay off your debts?”
I felt my face get hot.
Anger bubbled up in my chest.
I wanted to yell.
To call him a liar.
To tell him what Robert had really done.
But I remembered what the prosecution lawyer had told me.
Stay calm.
Stick to the facts.
Let the truth speak for itself.
“My startup wasn’t failing,” I said, my voice steady. “We were profitable. We had 12 employees. We had three Fortune 500 clients. And as for the inheritance? I didn’t want my dad’s money. I wanted my dad. I would have given every last dollar we had just to have him back. And I almost lost him. Because your client drugged him. Locked him in his study. Left him to die. Paid a coroner to sign a fake death certificate. Tried to have me locked up in an asylum so I couldn’t tell anyone the truth. And if I hadn’t remembered the code phrase my dad and I made up when I was seven? If I hadn’t fought to keep his casket open? He’d be dead. Buried. And your client would be sitting in my dad’s office, spending his money, laughing at all of us.”
The room went quiet.
The jury was staring at me, their faces softening.
I looked over at the defense table.
Robert’s smile was gone.
His face was white.
He knew.
I’d just hit a nerve.
Over the next three days, the prosecution called witness after witness.
The paramedic who’d treated Dad at the funeral home, testifying about the rare sedative in his system.
The corrupt coroner, who’d taken a plea deal too, crying on the stand, admitting Robert had paid him $200,000 to sign the fake death certificate, to skip the autopsy.
Mr. Hale, testifying about the threats against his daughter Lila, bringing the texts Robert had sent him, the voice mails, the proof.
Sarah, testifying about how Robert had planned the whole thing for six months, how he’d researched the sedative online, how he’d practiced opening and closing the study lock from the outside, how he’d already picked out the private asylum in Mexico where he was going to send me, so I’d never be heard from again.
Mike, the security guard, testifying about the airport, about Robert holding a knife to Sarah’s throat, about trying to flee the country.
The worst part was the video.
The prosecution played the security camera footage from Dad’s study, from the night Robert drugged him.
Robert had disabled most of the cameras, but he’d missed one—the tiny hidden one Dad had installed in the bookshelf a year prior, after someone had stolen a rare first edition book from his collection.
The whole room watched, silent, as Robert poured the sedative into Dad’s scotch.
As Dad drank it.
As he collapsed, face first, onto the desk.
As Robert stood over him, smiling, checking his pulse, pulling out his phone to call the coroner.
As he walked around the study, stealing files, shoving them into his briefcase.
As he locked the door from the outside, turning off the lights, leaving Dad alone in the dark to die.
I heard a woman on the jury sob.
Another one wiped a tear from her eye.
Robert didn’t look at the screen.
He stared down at his hands, his face red with shame and rage.
There was no coming back from that.
No lie his lawyer could tell.
No technicality he could use.
The video was proof.
Irrefutable.
On the fifth day of the trial, the prosecution rested.
Robert’s lawyer didn’t call a single witness.
He didn’t put Robert on the stand.
He knew.
It was over.
The closing arguments took a day.
The prosecution asked for life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Robert’s lawyer begged for leniency, talked about his “difficult childhood,” about how he’d always lived in his brother’s shadow, about how he was a good man who’d made a terrible mistake.
The jury retired to deliberate at 3 p.m. that Friday.
We didn’t have to wait long.
They came back at 5 p.m., their faces serious.
The judge asked the foreman to read the verdict.
“On the count of attempted murder in the first degree,” the foreman said, his voice loud and clear. “We find the defendant, Robert Carter, guilty.”
A cheer went up from the gallery.
Dad squeezed my hand, hard.
Robert’s face crumpled.
His lawyer put his head in his hands.
“On the count of conspiracy to commit murder,” the foreman continued. “Guilty.”
“On the count of fraud in the first degree, 62 counts.”
“Guilty.”
“On the count of aggravated kidnapping.”
“Guilty.”
“On the count of tampering with evidence.”
“Guilty.”
“On the count of child endangerment, for the threats against Lila Hale.”
“Guilty.”
It went on and on.
127 counts total.
Guilty on every single one.
The judge set sentencing for the following Monday.
As the bailiffs led Robert out of the courtroom, cuffs on his wrists, he turned and looked at us.
His face was twisted with hate.
“This isn’t over!” he screamed, spittle flying. “I’ll appeal! I’ll get out! I’ll make you pay for this! Both of you!”
Dad didn’t flinch.
He just stared back, his face calm.
“No, you won’t,” he said, loud enough for Robert to hear. “You’re never getting out. And we’re going to spend the rest of our lives making sure of it.”
Robert screamed one more curse, then the bailiffs dragged him out, the heavy courtroom doors slamming shut behind him.
I let out a long, shaky breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Dad pulled me into a hug, tight, like he never wanted to let go.
“It’s over, kiddo,” he said, his voice thick. “Really over.”
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I hugged him back, tears in my eyes.
“Finally,” I said.
