I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 173: Court II
The battle waged on. And on.
What began as a heated dispute between shareholders quickly mutated into something far more complex—something uncontrollable. Though the case was held on federal soil, and thus escalated into a federal matter, it proved anything but easily solvable. The weight of it dragged on for weeks, gripping the entire nation—and soon the world.
Time Magazine dubbed it The Courtroom War of the Decade, a title not given lightly, especially considering the cases that had come before it. It eclipsed Obergefell v. Hodges, which legalized same-sex marriage nationwide. It cast a shadow over Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, the landmark ruling that lifted restrictions on corporate election spending, one of the most controversial decisions in modern U.S. legal history.
But Blackwell v. Usher (2024) wasn't just a court case. It was a reckoning. A spectacle. A billion-eyeball event. Cameras were everywhere, anchors stuttering through legal jargon on 24-hour coverage. The world had tuned in. It wasn't just front-page news—it was the front page, every day, everywhere.
From Wall Street brokers to café tables in Marrakesh, the name "Blackwell" was on every tongue. The courtroom became a global stage. Powerful figures from every continent made their way to Washington to bear witness—tech titans, media barons, heads of state. Even the Saudi Ambassador to the United States made an appearance, his arrival shifting the atmosphere in the room like the eye of a storm. His presence—stern, confrontational, unyielding—reflected the growing tension between two long-time allies, Saudi Arabia and the United States, whose economic and political interests had never clashed so sharply.
But above the politics, the personalities, and the press coverage, there were still 3 trillion more reasons this case had seized the global imagination.
Three. Trillion. Dollars.
That was the value of the shares in question—the market capitalization on the line. The fate of Blackwell Investments, one of the most powerful and private conglomerates in the world, rested in the court's hands. This wasn't a simple matter of inheritance, like the previous legal scuffle had been. No, this time it was about control. About transformation. About whether the company would remain a privately held monolith under Alexander Blackwell's rule—or be flung into the unforgiving public markets for the world to invest in, watch, and manipulate.
This case could change capitalism itself.
It was a legal maverick. A once-in-a-century battle of law, philosophy, and power.
The attorneys were relentless titans. Day after day, they traded blows in the form of statutes, precedents, and razor-sharp arguments. Courtroom 7A transformed into an arena where law wasn't just interpreted—it was forged anew in the heat of high-stakes combat.
Even Judge Wexler, a man not easily shaken, felt dwarfed by the scale of what he was witnessing. In all his decades on the bench, he had never seen anything like this. Both Harvey and Whittaker were masterful. Legal prodigies backed by armies of brilliant minds, they had pushed the courtroom—and the Constitution—to its limit. Their brilliance wasn't just persuasive; it was exhausting.
Every time Wexler thought one had made the decisive blow, the other parried with something sharper. A counter-precedent. An unexpected motion. An obscure ruling from 1932 that turned the entire logic of the opposing argument on its head. It was endless. And masterful. And horrifying.
The judge had barely slept in two weeks.
And now, finally, it was time.
Two full weeks of pressure, power, and manipulation had brought him here—sitting silently in his high-backed chair, the gavel in his hand, the courtroom buzzing with anticipation.
Bang.
The sound echoed like a gunshot in a war zone.
Judge Wexler looked out over the crowd—and his heart tightened. He saw the faces. The same powerful faces who had stalked his chambers, sat in his gallery, whispered in the corners of his court like phantoms. The Saudi Ambassador was back again, sitting stony-faced in the front row. His body language radiated pressure. Threat. Behind him, a former U.S. Treasury Secretary stared blankly ahead, his presence just as loaded. To Wexler's right sat media moguls, oil barons, and political architects who had rewritten the rules of entire countries.
And they were all here. Watching him.
He looked like a ghost of his former self.
His once-pristine robes were wrinkled. His dark eyes, once clear and commanding, now looked hollow—two bruised moons in sunken sockets. His silver hair, once perfectly parted and combed, was unraveling at the edges. There were tufts that looked close to falling out, as if the stress of each decision had pulled them loose one by one. His cheeks had hollowed, and his posture had begun to curl inward, like a man slowly trying to disappear into himself.
The pressure was unbearable. He had no family left to ground him—his ex-wife had called once during the trial, begging him to lean a certain way. He didn't doubt someone had gotten to her. Everyone had someone in their ear.
And still, the lawyers looked untouched.
Wexler's eyes flicked toward them, and for the first time in his long, meticulous career, he felt a pang of fury.
Harvey Usher and Whittaker sat like marble statues—still perfectly tailored, their suits crisp, their eyes alert. Machines. That's what they looked like. Legal machines who had devoured every clause, every ruling, every whisper of precedent. Their minds sharp as scalpels, their faces unreadable.
Whittaker, whose courtroom charisma once made headlines, had long lost his smile. His youthful glow had dimmed—yet his eyes remained unsettlingly sharp. Harvey, ever the cold tactician, sat still as death, fingers steepled, exuding lethal calm. Both men had changed—yes—but not broken. If anything, the trial had refined them into something harder. Sharper. Inhuman.
Wexler's gaze drifted back to the crowd. Composed. Comfortable. Too comfortable. Some of them had threatened him in ways that didn't need words—glares, nods, even silence. Some used proxies. Others had disguised influence with flattery. But they all had one thing in common: they didn't see him as a man.
They saw him as a lever.
And now, after all of it, they expected him to pull it.
The crowd watched him like hungry wolves.
He gripped the edge of the bench.
This had to end today.
He would make sure it ended today.
He had seen what this trial had done to him. To the law. To his soul. It had twisted everything—every principle, every belief—in ways that were beginning to feel permanent. He had never feared himself before, but now… he wasn't so sure. He found himself talking to shadows, rereading pages he'd already memorized. Some nights, he heard voices in the walls, whispering clauses of the Constitution back at him in a loop. He had to steady his hands before picking up his pen. Twice, he nearly recused himself.
But recusal would mean surrender. And he would not surrender.
Not to them.
Not to this.
He straightened in his chair, fighting the numbness crawling through his veins. His gavel trembled in his grip, not from weakness—but from decision.
Because today, someone would lose.
Today, the fate of one of the most powerful companies in the world—perhaps the most powerful—would be decided.
And Wexler would be the one to pass the sentence.
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Judge Wexler's voice cut through the packed courtroom like steel.
"You have all called your witnesses," he began, firmly. "From the four newly appointed associate judges… to CEOs, forensic accountants, ethics professors, former CFOs, drug toxicologists, clinical psychologists, addiction specialists, even former prescribing physicians. You've brought in tech analysts, economic historians, and yes—one Nobel Laureate in market structure."
He paused, looking over his glasses, his expression unreadable.
"And still… still, I am being told there is more?"
A low hum rippled through the room. Wexler remained seated, but his posture was rigid—his hands gripping the edge of the bench, as though steadying himself.
"We are two weeks into proceedings. We've heard over four thousand pages of testimony. Subpoenas were executed under emergency order. There have been depositions, cross-examinations, procedural challenges, and evidentiary battles that would make most appellate panels shudder."
His tone was still measured—but colder now. Each word more deliberate.
"This case has brought before me the weight of over three trillion dollars in contested equity. I have watched seasoned attorneys argue with the force of a thousand careers on the line. I've seen alliances fracture. Diplomats fly in. Threats whispered. And still… this chamber asks for another day?"
The silence was absolute.
Then came the first voice.
"Your Honor—" Whitaker stood, collected but urgent, "—we have two critical witnesses left. The finance director has not completed his audit testimony, and the chain of custody for the prescription records—"
Harvey leapt to his feet. "Objection to any attempt to curtail remaining cross-examinations, Your Honor! We have a procedural right—"
The gallery erupted. People stood, whispered, gestured. The Saudi ambassador leaned into the French trade envoy. A senator raised their phone. Security shifted. Cameras snapped.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Order," Judge Wexler said, voice low.
BANG.
"I said—ORDER!"
His gavel slammed again, echoing like a drumbeat of fatigue and fury. His hands shook slightly. The bags under his eyes had grown darker, sunken. His skin, once composed and stately, looked thin and drawn.
He took a slow breath. Then another.
"I have sat this bench for 27 years," he said quietly, but audibly. "I have ruled on constitutional challenges. On international litigation. On criminal cases that chilled me to the bone. But never—never—have I presided over a case that has asked so much of so many, for so long, with so little regard for what this courtroom is meant to stand for."
He glanced from one legal team to the other.
"Mr. Whitaker, Ms. Usher. Mr. Harvey, Mr. Blackwell. You all look… composed. Polished. Still. But I have not slept in four nights. I have had justices call me in the early hours, asking if I am safe. I have watched junior clerks resign on moral grounds. I have received messages from people who should never know my number."
He ran a hand through his thinning hair. It stuck up in places, revealing how disheveled he'd become.
"Make no mistake—I am still the judge in this room. I will not let fatigue cloud my judgment. But I will also not allow this proceeding to drag on into oblivion."
He looked to the clock. Then back at the room.
"There will be a twenty-minute recess. Use it wisely. When we return, I will hear only closing arguments. No new witnesses. No new files. No further delays."
His voice softened, though it lost none of its weight.
"After that… I will issue my ruling."
He stood. Slowly. His back stiff, but his presence unshaken.
"Court is in recess."
And with that, Judge Wexler turned and stepped away—his robe trailing behind him, his shoulders bowed not just with age, but with the unbearable weight of justice.
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I've written two versions of this scene. While I chose the one above for its realism, I personally prefer the one below.
Judge Wexler's voice rang across the packed courtroom like the crack of thunder.
"You've all called your witnesses. From the four newly appointed associate judges… to CEOs, forensic accountants, ethics professors, former CFOs, even drug toxicologists, clinical psychologists, addiction specialists, and former prescribing physicians. You've brought tech analysts, economic historians, even one damn Nobel Laureate for market structure. And still—STILL—you tell me there's more?"
He stood now, shaky but upright, as murmurs surged through the courtroom like a rising tide. His voice turned cold, calculated.
"Over 4,000 pages of depositions. More than 80 hours of live testimony. Eleven subpoenas issued and enforced under federal emergency protocols. And after all this, after the storm you all dragged into this courtroom like a hurricane of ego and dollar signs—after every soul in here watched friendships, alliances, and perhaps even empires fall apart—you still think this case can stretch one more day?"
A sharp silence followed, but only for a breath.
Then the chaos began.
"Your Honor, I must protest—!" barked Whitaker, rising quickly, his voice smooth yet rattled. "We have two material witnesses left—our side hasn't even brought forward the finance director's full audit. These are critical to—"
"Objection to this sudden declaration, Your Honor!" snapped Morales, her voice sharp as broken glass, "If we are denied cross-examination on the audit, this entire process becomes a mistrial waiting to happen. I have a dozen pages of inconsistencies in—"
The noise surged. People from the gallery stood. Some clapped. Some jeered. The Saudi ambassador exchanged words with the French trade minister seated beside him, both gesturing wildly. A senator tried to hush the cameras. Flashes popped. Tensions frayed.
Wexler's hand trembled as he slammed his gavel.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"ORDER! ORDER! ORDER!"
But no one stopped.
He banged again, harder, sweat beading on his brow. His once-perfect silver hair now stuck out in wiry tufts, like someone who hadn't slept—because he hadn't. His black robe sagged on him, soaked in the sweat of two relentless weeks. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, twitched as he scanned the room. The circles under them were so deep they seemed carved.
His voice, once the embodiment of federal authority, now cracked under strain.
"Is this justice? Is this what we have come to? Gladiators in thousand-dollar suits, tearing at each other over a company whose valuation dwarfs the GDP of most countries! I've watched you dissect morality like surgeons with rusty scalpels… and for what? For shares? For control? For ego?"
He paused, panting slightly, his voice now low and ragged.
"Do you know what it is… to go to bed and see numbers dancing behind your eyelids? To dream of clauses, exhibits, emails, dates, and names on affidavits like ghosts haunting your skull? My own ex-wife called me two nights ago and demanded I rule in favor of the plaintiff. The woman hasn't spoken to me in seven years, and suddenly she cares about market equity?"
His hands gripped the bench like he was holding on to reality itself. The gavel fell again, clumsily this time.
BANG.
He leaned forward.
"I see you, all of you—well-rested, suited like machines. Morales, your lipstick hasn't smudged once. Whitaker, your tie has been knotted with surgical precision since day one. Have either of you even eaten in this room? Slept? Cried? Or are you so deep in this performance, you've forgotten what humanity even feels like?"
His eyes glimmered—not with tears, but the sheen of unraveling restraint.
"And you in the stands…" he turned to the gallery, his voice rising again, "…you who threatened me, bribed me, pressured my clerks. You want a verdict so badly you're willing to burn down what little honor the bench has left."
Another flash went off. Another murmur started.
He banged the gavel so hard the head cracked.
"ENOUGH!"
The courtroom froze. The sound had been brutal, echoing. Everyone—lawyers, spectators, journalists—stared at the man behind the bench.
His robe slipped slightly off his shoulder. His breathing was ragged.
"There will be a twenty-minute recess," he said, voice barely above a whisper at first. Then it grew. "Twenty minutes. That's all. After that… you will return. You will deliver your closing statements. You will answer for every file, every allegation, every dollar. And then—then—I will pass judgment."
He didn't wait for their reactions.
"You have twenty minutes. Use it to pray."
And with that, he stood—slowly, like a marionette whose strings were rotting—and shuffled out of the courtroom, leaving behind a room brimming with fear, rage, and stunned silence.
