"On count one, wire fraud, 14 years. On count two, bribery, 11 years. On counts three through 12, exploitation of vulnerable adults, six years each to run consecutively. Total sentence, 85 years in federal prison. Parole eligibility after 51 years."
Preston's face went white.
The courtroom was silent.
"Additionally," the judge continued, "you are ordered to pay full restitution to all identified victims. Your assets will be liquidated to satisfy this debt. And you will cooperate fully with ongoing federal investigations into the whereabouts of the 13 individuals still missing from Facility 7 records."
She looked at Emmett.
"Mr. Holloway, thank you for your courage in coming forward. Your testimony was instrumental in this conviction."
Emmett nodded.
Couldn't speak.
The gavel came down.
"Court is adjourned."
Outside the courthouse, Emmett stood on the steps and breathed.
Luther stood next to him.
Didn't say anything.
Just stood there.
After a while, Emmett spoke.
"85 years."
"Yeah."
"He'll die in prison."
"Yeah."
Emmett was quiet for another moment.
"Good."
Luther almost smiled.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."
Six years later, Emmett walked into the McDowell County Housing Assistance Office.
He was 22 now, college graduate, social work degree.
First day on the job as an intake coordinator.
The same office where he'd come at 15, desperate and ignored.
The same desk where a case worker had refused to make eye contact.
Now he sat behind that desk.
His first client was a woman, late 30s, two kids, eviction notice in hand.
She looked exhausted.
Looked like she'd been fighting too long with too little.
Looked like she expected to be told no.
Emmett recognized the look.
He'd worn it for 3 weeks when he was 15.
"Ms. Torres," he said.
She looked up, eyes wary.
"That's me."
"I'm Emmett Holloway. I'm your intake coordinator. I'm here to help you find housing."
She stared at him.
"That's it? No wait list? No forms?"
"There's paperwork," Emmett said gently, "but we're going to fill it out together. And I'm going to make sure your placement moves as quickly as possible. The system's been reformed. New oversight, new protocols, new people running it."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I'm not going to lie to you. It's still slow, it's still complicated, but it's not corrupt anymore. And I promise you, I will fight for your family the same way someone fought for mine."
Ms. Torres's eyes filled.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Emmett nodded.
"Let's get started."
That night, Emmett drove to the clubhouse.
Still standing, still full of brothers, still smelling like motor oil and coffee.
Luther was there, older now, gray in his beard, but still president, still steady.