Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Philadelphia Regional Court.

A dull thud brought an end to months of clamor.

Judge Harrison lowered his gavel.

The air in the courtroom seemed to freeze in that instant.

All eyes—from the jury, the lawyers, the reporters, and even the plainclothes agents in the back of the gallery—were fixed on the young man’s back in the defendant’s box.

The judge’s voice carried through the microphone to every corner of the courtroom.

"This court accepts the jury’s verdict."

"Defendant Luigi Randall is found guilty of third-degree murder."

"Regarding the sentence."

The judge paused, his gaze sweeping over the mountains of case files.

He felt the pressure.

Pressure from Washington demanded a harsh punishment to deter the mobs who dared to challenge the established order.

Pressure from the streets of Philadelphia demanded leniency, for the young man was a hero in their eyes.

He had to find a balance.

A balance that would allow the system to maintain its dignity, yet give the mobs no excuse to riot.

"Given that the defendant’s motive has a specific social context, and that the jury demonstrated considerable hesitation during deliberation."

"But also given the unlawful act of the defendant taking another’s life."

"This court hereby sentences the defendant, Luigi Randall, to thirty years of imprisonment."

’In his personal opinion, Luigi’s actions constituted the gravest challenge to social order and deserved the death penalty.’

’But considering the overwhelming public sentiment reflected in the jury’s reluctance, as well as the hint from Washington to ’avoid escalating tensions,’ thirty years was the best compromise he could find between upholding the dignity of the law and the reality of politics.’

’This sentence would be enough to placate Washington, without causing the citizens to completely lose control.’

Elias Wayne sat there. The moment he heard the sentence, his shoulders visibly relaxed and he let out a long, heavy sigh.

’He had won.’

’Although his client had been found guilty, this was the greatest possible victory, considering the overwhelming political pressure and the prosecutor’s vow to seek a life sentence.’

Thirty years.

The number landed with a heavy thud, stirring a low murmur through the courtroom.

For a twenty-four-year-old, thirty years meant the prime of his life would be spent behind bars.

By the time he got out, he would be fifty-four years old.

It was a heavy enough punishment.

But it was only thirty years.

Not death, not life in prison.

It meant there was still hope he would one day get out.

At the prosecution’s table, Prosecutor Hart closed his file, his face expressionless.

He showed neither the joy of victory nor the dejection of defeat.

’This was in line with Washington’s expectations.’

’Time would wash everything away.’

’Thirty years in prison would wear down his edges, make him fat, bald, and mediocre.’

’Thirty years from now, who will remember who Arthur Vance was? Who will remember the debate over medical justice?’

Hart glanced at the defendant’s box, then turned to pack his briefcase.

’Mission accomplished.’

In the defendant’s box.

Luigi Randall slowly stood up.

Two burly bailiffs immediately closed in, flanking him and grabbing his arms to prevent any sudden moves.

Luigi didn’t struggle.

He had heard the number.

Thirty years.

He was calm.

’The moment he pulled the trigger, he had been prepared to die.’

’Now, the law had given him a chance to live, though the path was lined with thorns and high walls.’

He turned to face the gallery.

There sat the workers’ representatives from Pittsburgh, alongside countless cameras, their red recording lights blinking directly at him.

Many in the gallery covered their mouths, tears streaming between their fingers.

Thirty years was too long—so long it brought despair.

But Luigi didn’t cry.

There wasn’t even a trace of sorrow on his face.

He looked at the lenses, at the countless pairs of eyes watching him from behind them, and suddenly raised both his hands.

CLANK—

The heavy metal handcuffs made a jarring sound.

He raised his hands above his head and clenched them into tight fists.

No shouts, no slogans, no rousing speech.

Just a single fist.

Held high in the courtroom air.

In that instant, camera flashes erupted, freezing the image in time.

The orange jumpsuit, the silver handcuffs, the slender yet defiant fist.

It was a symbol.

A symbol of defiance, of resistance, of a soul that remained free even as the body was imprisoned.

The bailiffs, flustered, forced Luigi’s hands down and shoved him toward a side door.

Luigi was pushed away.

But the image he left behind was already spreading across the United States through fiber optics and satellites.

...

In a corner of the courtroom.

Several men in expensive suits breathed a sigh of relief.

They were observers from the major insurance companies, representatives from the medical Lobbying Group.

’They had been waiting for this result.’

’As long as it wasn’t an acquittal, this was a victory.’

’Order had been maintained.’

’The killer had paid the price.’

’This verdict sent a clear message to everyone: no matter how noble your reasons, no matter how much support you have, if you dare to open fire on an agent of capital, the law will lock you in a cage.’

’Not to mention the Critical Infrastructure Protection Bill that Washington had just passed.’

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