“How much money is enough to erase a crime?”

Madison Carter walked into the courtroom the way people walk onto the Met Gala red carpet.
Louis Vuitton heels clicked sharply against the marble floor.
A Prada handbag swung in perfect rhythm.
Chanel sunglasses stayed on.
Phone glued to her hand.
Twenty minutes late.
No apology.
No eye contact.
No concern.

Nineteen years old.
Daughter of Senator Richard Carter.
Raised her entire life inside a safety zone called “my dad will handle it.”

She didn’t hurry.
She strode.
As if everyone present were an audience.
As if the courtroom were backstage.
As if this were nothing more than a scheduling inconvenience.

She was facing reckless driving, hit-and-run, failure to comply with police orders, obstruction of justice.
But in her mind?
“Five minutes. That’s it.”

FaceTime. In court.

“Hold on. I’ll call you back. This thing will take, like, five minutes.”

She hung up.
Dropped into the chair.
Texted.
Chewed gum.
Did not acknowledge the judge.

Judge Frank Caprio looked up.
Patient.
As always.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Carter.”

One finger went up.
“Wait.”

Ten seconds of silence.
She finally looked up, irritated.

“What?”

No “Your Honor.”
No respect.
Just “What?”

The air in the courtroom froze.

Judge Caprio remained calm.
“Do you understand why you’re here today?”

Madison rolled her eyes.
“Yeah. Some stupid thing. That truck came out of nowhere. I was in a hurry. And anyway… we already paid.”

Paid.
Her magic word.

The charges were read.
One by one.
Each count a hammer striking reality.

“How do you plead?”

Madison sighed, checking her front camera.
“Not guilty. Obviously. Can we speed this up? I have a dinner reservation at seven.”

Her lawyer stood. Smooth voice.
“We have already compensated the victim fifteen thousand dollars.”

Judge Caprio set his pen down.
Gently.
But loud enough to be heard.

“Đây không phải là một cửa hàng tiện lợi. Cái này

Madison cắt vào

A dangerous calm settled.
Judge Caprio’s eyes changed.

“You believe writing a check erases criminal law?”

Madison looked back at her phone.
“Whatever.”

Then the video played.

A white BMW.
Eighty miles per hour.
Police lights.
No stop.
Acceleration.
A delivery truck struck.
No brakes.
No hesitation.
She fled.

The gated community entrance opened automatically.
She parked.
Made a call.

“Wait until I finish talking.”

An officer requested her documents.

“Do you know who my father is?”

The familiar line.
An old blade.
This time, turned inward.

“My father is a Senator. Chairman of the Judiciary Committee. Do you understand now?”

The officer did not flinch.

“Are you threatening me, ma’am?”

“No. I’m educating you on how the world works.”

The video ended.

Silence.
Heavy as concrete.

Judge Caprio removed his glasses.
Wiped them slowly.

“Do you have anything to say?”

“It’s taken out of context. I was just providing information.”

Then the messages were read aloud.

“Dad will handle it.”
“Can you make this disappear?”
“Thanks. That’s why we pay you.”

Laughing emojis.

The lawyer lowered his head.
The courtroom murmured.

Then Mr. Chen spoke.
An immigrant.
A delivery driver.
Twelve hours a day.
Six days a week.
Nearly killed.
Offered money to stay quiet.

“I don’t want money. I want justice.”

Madison blurted the final, fatal line.

“He just wants more money.”

Boom.

Judge Caprio stood.

The entire room held its breath.

“You have just demonstrated everything that is wrong with privilege.”

No shouting.
No insults.
Each word landed like a gavel.

“Ten thousand dollars in fines. Earned by you. Not your father.”

“Driver’s license revoked for eighteen months.”

“Three hundred hours of community service. Working with immigrant delivery drivers.”

Madison collapsed.

“It will humiliate me!”

“No. This is justice.”

The gavel struck.

Two months later.

Madison wore a uniform.
No Prada.
No Chanel.
Lifting boxes.

Mr. Chen handed her a clipboard.

“You’re learning.”

Madison nodded.

And for the first time in her life,
there was no phone in her hand.