The courtroom was silent. Even the court reporter had stopped typing.
"You are a public figure, Mr. Henley. Your actions don't just affect you; they affect everyone who looks up to you. Every kid who wears your jersey. Every fan who cheers when you score. You had a responsibility to be better than this, and you failed spectacularly."
She picked up her gavel, but didn't strike it yet.
"The reduced hours are a gift you didn't earn, paid for with money you didn't have to sacrifice anything to obtain. But the therapy, the service, the monthly check-ins. Those are non-negotiable. Your service hours begin immediately. The court will require progress reports each month from Dr. Honors, the clinic director, regarding your attendance and behavior. Your therapist will also submit monthly reports on your progress with anger management."
Judge Wilson's eyes bore into mine. "I'm going to be very clear, Mr. Henley. This is not a punishment designed to inconvenience you. This is an opportunity for you to prove you're capable of change. If you complete this sentence with genuine effort and demonstrable progress, you may salvagewhat's left of your career and your reputation. If you treat it as a formality to be endured, if you show up late, if you half-ass a single hour of service, if you fail a single drug test, if you miss a single therapy session, youwillserve the maximum sentence of eighteen months in state prison. No plea deals. No negotiations. No second chances. One more incident, Mr. Henley, and you're done.”
She struck her gavel once, the sound like a gunshot in the silent courtroom.
“Next case."
Outside the courthouse, the bodies closed in. Microphones thrust forward. Cameras flashed. Voices overlapped into noise.
"Easton, how do you feel about the sentence?"
"Will this affect your career with the Shadow Wolves?"
"Do you think you deserve jail time?"
"What do you say to critics who claim you bought your way out of prison?"
"What would your father say about this?"
That last question punched straight through my ribs. Sunny skillfully guided me through the crowd to her waiting car, maintaining a protective silence until we were safely inside with the doors locked.
"That went about as well as we could hope," she said, a sigh of relief escaping as the engine of her ruby red 1976 Corvette purred to life.
A derisive scoff escaped my lips. "She eviscerated me in there. In front of everyone."
"She gave you exactly what we negotiated for," Sunny corrected, her voice gentle but firm. "Easton, without that settlement, you'd be looking at felony charges. Eighteen months minimum. I told you the plea deal would come with public accountability, and Judge Wilson delivered. But you're not going to prison. That's what matters."
"I paid three million dollars to clean up dog shit for two hundred hours. That's what matters."
"You paid three million dollars to avoid destroying your entire life." Sunny maneuvered her car through the dense traffic with practiced ease. "And for what it's worth, interacting with animals could genuinely help manage your anger."
"I don't have anger issues," I snapped.
Sunny's raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
We weren't heading toward my condo. "Where are we going?"
"To meet your temporary boss." Sunny checked her watch. "Dr. Honors is expecting us in twenty minutes."
"Now? I just got out of court!"
"And your service starts immediately, as per the judge's orders." Sunny's tone left no room for argument. "Dr. Honors runs The Paw Whisperer. From what I understand, she's expecting you to work like any other volunteer. She doesn't care about your celebrity status, and she definitely doesn't care that you're rich enough to buy your way down from eight hundred hours to two hundred."
The pointed reminder stung.
I leaned back against the headrest, closing my eyes. Judge Wilson's words echoed in my head:
The reduced hours are a gift you didn't earn, paid for with money you didn't have to sacrifice anything to obtain.
She was right. I'd bought my way to leniency. Wrote a check that wouldn't even dent my net worth and walked out of that courtroom while Yannis sat there knowing his horse would never race again.
The money didn't make it better. It just made it transactional.
