Wealth Is Power! (Marvel Comics)

As soon as I arrived, I could feel the press's glare boring into my skin. There were cameras all over this place, flashing wildly in this club, but come on, it was not a party. Nope, it was more of a standoff, and they were definitely looking to get blood—my blood. I figured it would die down after day one, but nope, it just got uglier. Was Silver Sable International or Shield in on this one? Their cameras got a close-up of every detail of my face, just waiting to dissect it for their news reports afterward. My new charcoal-colored suit looked great, I was certain of that, but I knew that didn't count. They didn't care one whit about what I was wearing; they just wanted to sensationalize whatever story they already had in the fire. "The Monster in a Suit," most likely. Or something even better if they got a kick of inspiration.

Jennifer Walters was standing next to me, standing tall and looking intimidating. Her green skin glistened in those harsh lights, and she had this air that caused everyone to move aside for her. She was surrounded by a team of lawyers who were poring over files and whispering over strategies, but I completely tuned them out. I was going over all the possible plays in my head. Where would the prosecution even begin? Which skeletons would they get out of my trunk this time around? I had a whole trunk full of those, after all.

So, out there in the streets, the protesters were going hard. Even over those thick marble walls, you could absolutely hear them screaming—that incessant buzz of rage. At first, it was just a distant sound, but if you lingered long enough, you could actually decipher some actual words. "Murderer." "Devil." "Corporate scum." Old standbys, in all honesty. I've heard every iteration of those words my entire life, but it's a different story when you've got hundreds of angry voices screaming it all en masse. Makes you question if maybe they've got a point.

I leaned in towards Jennifer as I walked with her. "Think they'll still be around when it's over?" I asked, playing it cool like it was just a regular day at work.

Jennifer didn't even glance in my direction, just continued to walk. "Depends. Planning to get convicted today?"

"Only if you're as great as you claim to be," I retorted with a small smirk. And she was that great—that's why I brought her in on this.

The courtroom was already packed when we arrived. Reporters, gawkers, just plain old people wanting to watch a billionaire sweat—it was standing room only. The air was thick enough that it seemed to vibrate. This was more than a trial; it was a full-on show, a genuine spectacle. And I was in it.

Jennifer took me to our table, beginning low but forceful. "Remain calm, Simon. They're all looking at you."

"They've been staring at me since I got out of the vehicle," I said softly, sitting down in my seat. "I bet that dude in the third row is already live-tweeting it."

She didn't reply, just shot me that look she has—one of warning and of reassurance. Jennifer was a total pro, no question of it, but she was not the one in trouble here. I was.

I saw the protesters from my seat, their signs bobbing around, Sharpie letters scrawled across them: "Burn Steele Enterprises!" "Workers Over Wealth!" "Rot in Hell, Steele!" So high school art project-y. Security was working to push them back, but it was apparent that they weren't moving.

I turned around to face the courtroom again and looked around one more time. The judges were also AWOL, but the prosecution was already huddled around their table, all jammed in there like a pack of hyenas. One of them glanced my way for a brief instant before completely averting his face. He was fairly young, in his late twenties or something, and he had that air of self-righteousness that said he was going to save the world just because he was a lawyer. All his posturing was shouting, "I went to law school to save the world." Oh, sweetheart.

Jennifer inched forward and whispered, "Focus. Don't let them catch you off guard."

"Distracted? I'm absorbing it all in," I whispered back. "Atmosphere matters."

She sighed and I knew she was already regretting that she had accepted this case. But that was fine. She could regret to her heart's content as long as she got the job done.

The quiet murmur of discussion in the courtroom was silenced by the bailiff's call as the judges entered. Everyone rose, including me, although my knees were a bit stiff. Not from age—no, that was the one issue that had been addressed—but from the pressure. It was like standing at the precipice of a cliff, looking down into a chasm and praying your balance wouldn't give way.

When we sat down again, I noticed Jennifer glancing at me, her expression unreadable. "You ready for this?" she asked quietly.

"Always," I fibbed.

The judges came in, black robes billowing behind them like vultures soaring over the landscape. Nine of them, sitting far above their bench like gods passing judgment on mortals to damnation, stone-chiselled faces. Some already looked bored, others sombre, and one looked like she'd prefer to be somewhere else. Guilty.

The gray-haired senior justice glanced down at me for a heartbeat before shoving his glasses farther up his face. That was a hard gaze, as though he was trying to peer inside my skull and read all the rotten things I'd ever committed. Daring. I held his gaze for a moment in what I prayed was an aura of polite neutrality—flat and controlled. Make them guess what I was thinking. It was for the best.

The bailiff declared the start of the case with a booming voice. "The Supreme Court of the United States is now in session. All rise for the case of The People vs. Simon Steele and Steele Enterprises, Incorporated."

All rise? Oh, great, why not. I waited with the others, struggling to contain my aggravation. Jennifer could see that I was checking the edges, just barely feeling that intense watch of her stare. No fluttering fingers, no wry smirks, no exposed weakness—anything they did, anyone of us was watching with criticism. It was not a court, of course. This was a theater, and this was a people composed entirely of critic and crowd.

Once we were finally seated, the prosecution was not idle. Out came a woman—early forties, tight suit, hair pulled so back it had to hurt. She was the kind of woman who screamed, I have something to prove, and gave her an opening statement as though she had been rehearsing in front of the mirror for weeks.

"Your honors," she started out, her words slicing through the courtroom like a blade, "we are standing here today holding Simon Steele to account. Not only for his actions, but for the climate of corruption, exploitation, and illegality he has created throughout Steele Enterprises. This is a person who has built his business empire on the back of the poor, who has used his powers to amass wealth at others' expense. Today, we will show you the truth."

I moved closer to Jennifer, and said quietly. "She's got the drama right. Maybe she should have become an actress."

Jennifer didn't even blink. "Pay attention, Simon."

The prosecutor paced and spoke, the heels of her shoes clicking back and forth in a metronome of evil. She had a picture she painted for the court: the workers cheated of honest wages, hazardous conditions that were ignored, backroom agreements with known gangsters. I'd think that I was the bad guy from some comic book... oh wait.

"Testimony," she continued, "will show how Simon Steele conducted his company with complete disregard for the law, for morals, and for simple decency as a human being. We will introduce testimony of former employees, banking records, and messages which will leave no one in doubt but his own guilty conscience. It is more than a corporate corruption trial—it's about justice."

Justice. That was a word that seemed to hover in the air like a storm cloud. I laughed almost. Not because it was humorous, but because it was ridiculous. Justice didn't exist. Justice was a myth, a tale people told themselves to explain an unjust world.

Jennifer leaned in, her voice not even a whisper. "You're not answering. Good. Stay that way."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I muttered.

The prosecutor concluded her opening with a flourish, stepping back behind her table and smiling smugly. Her team nodded along with her, already thinking they'd won. Adorable. Jennifer rose next, smoothing out her blazer as she headed towards the bench.

"Your honors," she began measuredly, "the prosecution paints my client as a monster, a man driven by nothing more than greed and an indifference to anyone but himself. But you will not be informed of what's contextual. You will not be informed of the thousands of workers who have thrived under Steele Enterprises, of the communities which we have helped, of the progress which we have added to the world. This is not a case of justice; this is a perception case."

Her words were as soothing as balm. She wasn't speaking to the judges; she was speaking to all of us in the room, from the press to the jury of public opinion in their living rooms at home.

"We will demonstrate that the incriminating evidence against the prosecution is incomplete, deceptive, and in some cases completely fabricated," Jennifer continued, scanning the room. "We will demonstrate that my client has conducted his business within the ambit allowed by law and that all other accusations to the contrary have been based upon misunderstanding and misrepresentation."

While she spoke, I could see the judges. A couple of them had stony expressions, but one or two were nodding their heads just slightly. Jennifer was the type of person who could make you believe her, be drawn into her voice and presentation. I felt as if I was seeing a masterclass in persuasion.

When she returned to her seat, I sat up straight. "You nailed that."

"Don't get cocky," she complained, though there was the faintest glimmer of a smile on her lips.

The first witness was called shortly afterward—a thin, graying-haired former employee with a tightly wound demeanor. One of my own, practiced and prepared to vouch for me, but I could feel the tension emanating from him as he climbed into the witness stand. Bought loyalty was always a gamble, and I let out a silent sigh as the questioning began.

"Mr. Carter," the prosecutor started, her voice laden with mock friendliness, "you were employed by Steele Enterprises for five years, weren't you?"

"Yes," he answered, his tone steady but his fingers drumming anxiously on the seam of his jacket.

"And did you ever witness anything illegal or unethical happening during your time there?"

Carter hesitated, for barely more than a second, but it was enough to knot my stomach. "No, I did not."

The prosecutor pounced on it. "Are you certain? No low-wage workers? No dangerous corners cut in operations?

"Quite sure," Carter answered, his words stronger.

Jennifer reclined in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, observing the proceedings with an unnerving stillness. In turn, when it was time to cross-examine, she reduced the prosecution's line to nothing with a clinical efficiency, turning Carter's statement into a eulogy of Steele Enterprises. By the time he departed the stand, the prosecutor seemed to have tasted lemon.

Witness by witness, Jennifer worked her magic, and I sat in silence, quietly holding my breath, releasing it quietly when we won or at least I knew we did. It was an excruciatingly slow process, but at the end of the day, it felt like we'd managed to get the upper hand.

Then the closing arguments.

Jennifer was at my shoulder, going over her notes for the final time. She didn't need them, really. She could have memorized our entire defense in reverse while doing squats. But she enjoyed the ritual, the movement, the preparation. It grounded her. I sat there trying to look cool, calm, and collected, as if my entire life wasn't hanging on a thread.

The chief justice cleared his throat, the tone cold and rasping, ringing above the muttering of the court. "Now we have closing arguments. Prosecution, please proceed."

The prosecutor got up, smoothing out her blazer like she was going to give on stage at a TED Talk. She walked over into the center of the room, her heels snapping with the arrogance of a person who felt that they were delivering the coup de grâce.

"Your honors," she began in a sweetly firm way, like she was going to read us all a bedtime story. A nightmare. "This case has unveiled a pattern—a pattern of dishonesty, a pattern of contempt for the law, a pattern of exploitation. Simon Steele is not just a businessman; he is a schemer, an individual who manipulates the system to his best interest, a person who thinks of people, not as persons, but merely as instruments in his own ends. He built an empire founded on deceitfulness and exploitation, and today we have presented before you the proofs to substantiate it."

Her words stung only because I was scared of what the judges would think of this. She moved deliberately, her eyes flicking between the justices as though she were trying to mind control them. "The workers injured by Steele Enterprises, the communities hurt by his actions, the illegal practices—this is not about one man's conduct. This is about responsibility. It is about enough is enough."

I leaned back in my seat, trying not to let any emotion show. In my head, I pictured a poker player sitting back to wait for the cards to fall, hoping that the river would be my salvation.

The prosecutor stepped back from her table, smugness and righteousness neatly balanced on her face. Jennifer's turn had come.

She rose gradually, her progress slow, intentional. No flourishes, no theatrics. Just a matter-of-fact confidence that gave the impression of authority. She walked to the center of the room, hesitated for a second, then began.

"Your honors," she said, her tone adamant, almost breezy. "The prosecution has presented a nice story. I'm not going to argue with that but it's all a story."

She paused for emphasis, letting the words sink in. "They have demonized my client, stereotyped him as the personification of corporate greed and evil. And yet the evidence they've presented to you is faulty, contradictory, and in some cases outright misleading. We've shown you the flaws, the holes, the assumptions. We've provided you with the facts.".

She half-turned, sweeping the room. "This trial isn't about what the public wants to hear. It isn't about the demonstrators on the streets or the tabloids in tomorrow's press. It's about the law. And by the law, Simon Steele is innocent."

She resumed her seat, saying no more. No great finale, no final look. Just a low-key, certain exit. That was the way she was. Let the words speak for themselves.

The chief justice ordered a recess as they consulted, and the room drained out like a deflated balloon. I remained seated for a moment, gazing at the empty bench, the quiet so near to being deafening.

"You did good," I said softly to Jennifer

She gave me a side-eye glance. "It's not over yet."

Outside the courtroom, the protesters had not dispersed. Louder now, maybe even louder, if that was possible. The signs waving about like outraged pennants, their messages penned thick and black on them. Justice for workers. Steele has to pay. No more corruption.

Security escorted us through the crowd, but we were sloshing through a storm. Reporters jammed microphones in our faces, protesters spat invective at our heads, cameras clicked the ugliness as each scowl was captured there.

"You're a monster, Steele! Think you can buy your way out of this one? Think you're going to make us forget?

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. My face a mask, my body on automatic pilot. Jennifer's hand on my arm propelling me forward.

"Don't react," she whispered, barely audible above the din.

"I wasn't going to," I said, my voice cracking.

We finally reached the car, its doors slamming shut behind us like a seal keeping us from the rest of humanity. I released a deep sigh, my shoulders finally falling after hours. Jennifer sat beside me, her phone already wrapped around her fingers, scrolling through what I knew was hate against me.

"Think they'll go our way?" I asked, the weight of suspicion heavy in my tone.

She didn't look up. "They should."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

She finally faced me with an unreadable face. "It's the truth. And right now, that's the best you're gonna get."