Chapter 4 - The Plea Agreement
By late January, the fraud investigation had reached its conclusion. The county courthouse was a modern, concrete building that looked more like an insurance office than a house of justice. There were no reporters, no dramatic arrivals on the stone steps.
Gage sat at the defense table next to a public defender who looked entirely exhausted by the sheer volume of paperwork the case had generated. Gage was wearing a cheap gray suit that was too tight across the shoulders, his face pale and sharp under the fluorescent lights. He didn't look at me where I sat in the third row with Naomi.
The judge, a woman named Martinez with short gray hair and an efficient, clipped way of speaking, didn't waste time on speeches. She turned the pages of the plea agreement with a steady, rhythmic click of her fingernails against the paper.
"Mr. Bennett," Judge Martinez said, her eyes looking over the top of her glasses at Gage. "You’ve entered a plea of guilty to one count of criminal identity misuse, one count of fraudulent application for credit, and one count of criminal trespass inside a residential dwelling. Do you understand that by entering this plea, you waive your right to a jury trial?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Gage said, his voice muffled, his head bowed.
"The state’s recommendation includes five years of supervised probation, three hundred hours of community service, and mandatory participation in the county’s financial responsibility program," the judge continued. "Furthermore, you are ordered to pay restitution in the amount of twelve thousand dollars to the independent trust established for the minor child, Kendall Bennett, to cover the value of the physical inventory removed from the residential garage during the incident on September fourteenth."
She paused, turning to a separate addendum in the file.
"The court is also imposing a strict behavioral injunction. You are prohibited from registering any new limited liability companies or opening commercial credit lines without the express written authorization of your probation officer during the five-year term. You are ordered to maintain a distance of no less than five hundred feet from the residence of Elena Bennett and the educational institution attended by Kendall Bennett. Do you understand these terms?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
I watched his hands where they were gripped against the edge of the wood table. The knuckles were white, the skin rough. This was the boy I had helped teach to drive, the nephew I had invited to Sunday dinners while he was systematically copying my daughter's drawings from her bedroom desk and uploading them to a print-on-demand server in Los Angeles.
There was no moment of satisfaction when the judge’s pen came down on the signature line. The gavel didn't even sound; the bailiff simply filed the papers into a gray metal cart and called the next case on the docket—a shoplifting charge involving a local teenager.
Outside in the hallway, Gage’s lawyer stopped us before we reached the elevators. Gage stayed ten feet behind him, his eyes fixed on the linoleum floor tiles.
"Elena," the attorney said, his tone professional but strained. "My client wants to ensure that the restitution checks can be routed directly through the clerk’s office. He... he wants no further contact with the family. He’s moving to Phoenix next week to take a job with a commercial landscaping crew."
I looked past the lawyer at Gage. He looked up then, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, brief remnant of the old, arrogant anger that had driven him to bring a crowbar to my home.
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"Tell him to keep his distance from the school," I said to the lawyer, my voice flat and cold. "If he steps across the five-hundred-foot line even once to see if she’s drawing, Naomi will have the probation warrant issued within the hour. He doesn't own her name anymore."
Gage didn't answer. He turned away, his cheap leather shoes clicking loudly down the hall toward the exit stairs, his shadow growing long and thin against the white walls before disappearing around the corner.
