I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 176: Usher Vs Blackwell

His eyes settled on Harvey now. "So… what's your plan for the closing statement?"

Alexander was many things—a strategist, a visionary, a quiet tyrant of efficiency—but he wasn't a lawyer. Not like Harvey. He could chart direction, he could structure alliances, he could sway entire economies with a phone call. But when it came to the black-and-white coldness of law, Harvey was the scalpel.

Harvey stepped forward slightly, folding his arms. His face was blank, his demeanor detached—the legal equivalent of a shrug. But Alexander caught it: that trace of disapproval, the silent resistance in the lawyer's voice and posture.

He didn't care. Harvey didn't need to like what he was doing. He just needed to do it well. And he had.

After a beat, Harvey spoke. His voice was quiet, disinterested, but razor-sharp beneath the surface.

"The judge is exhausted. Sick of this case. You can see it in the way he doesn't even look up when Desmond's team talks. The last thing we want is a closing that sounds like a lecture."

He stepped closer, the flicker of brilliance glinting in his otherwise cool eyes.

"So I'm anchoring it around Dodge v. Ford. Not just the legality of control—but the reality of function. Blackwell Investments was structured to grow, to protect shareholder value, not to become someone's personal ego-trip. I'll say it plainly: we're not in court to satisfy entitlement or emotion. The law doesn't care who feels wronged. It cares about operational integrity. We're going to make it clear—this isn't about fairness. It's about function. It's about who can lead, not who wants to."

There was a heavy silence in the room after that. Even Elisabeth didn't speak.

Alexander simply nodded once. Calm. Focused.

Hearing the plan for the closing statement, Alexander gave a single nod, slow and precise, a gesture that carried more weight than words. His voice came through the speakers, calm but laced with a subtle tension only the closest of them could detect.

"That's fine. It should work. We just have to hope," he paused—not long, but just enough to register a shift in rhythm, a flicker of something that didn't belong—"the judge sees this logically."

No one commented on the hesitation, but it lingered in the air like a ripple on still water.

He continued, voice returning to formality, "Once this is done, there are further tasks for you all. Make sure they're handled." His tone made it clear: this wasn't a suggestion.

Harvey gave a curt nod, more out of duty than agreement, his disinterest barely concealed. His eyes drifted to the clock, already mentally halfway out the room.

Jessica, who had remained quietly observant to the side, recognized the brief lull as her opening. She stepped forward slightly, voice measured but firm. "Mr. Blackwell."

Alexander's gaze flicked to her. The others followed suit.

"It's regarding your pending case, sir," she said quickly, her voice slicing through the tension like glass. A subtle shift passed through the room. The energy turned dense.

Harvey narrowed his eyes at her. "Jessica—" he said her name, a warning more than a call, but she didn't flinch.

"I was just going over the options to expedite the process. If we play it right, we can begin to work toward getting you back in the States sooner." She ignored Harvey's hard stare, her eyes locked on Alexander's.

"One of our senior attorneys is currently entangled in a separate litigation involving the same detective your case was filed under," she explained. "There's a significant breach on her end—an old internal complaint that was reopened. If we push forward and discredit her involvement entirely, we can argue bias and contamination of evidence. That alone could delay or even suspend the case. Possibly long enough to clear a path."

A murmur rustled across the room. Even Harvey, clearly annoyed, didn't interrupt this time.

Jessica stood her ground, unfazed by the pressure. She needed this—needed Blackwell's trust, and if it came at the cost of politeness, so be it.

From the monitor, Alexander's voice returned—low, contemplative.

"Hmm… That could be interesting."

Jessica's lips curved slightly as he continued.

"Send everything. Full documentation. I'll go through it."

"Yes, sir. I'll have it on your desk before nightfall," she said, satisfaction flickering across her face.

Alexander barely acknowledged her victory. "But for now," he said, his voice sharpening into command, "this case is the priority. Everything else waits. I'm watching. Don't disappoint me."

That was all. No good luck. No words of encouragement. Just expectation—cold and absolute.

He turned his eyes toward the monitor again. His mother hadn't moved. Elisabeth's stare was blazing.

"Alexander," she snapped, "my granddaughter."

He didn't even blink. "Mother."

Her mouth opened again, fiery with accusation. "My granddaugh—"

But the call ended mid-sentence.

The screen faded to black.

The countdown had hit zero.

Fifteen minutes had passed. It was time.

The fate of Blackwell Investments would be decided now.

Across the courtroom, every seat was filled. The atmosphere was a war between silence and anticipation.

On one end sat the governor, her expression unreadable, stone-carved, her prayers silent but ceaseless. She sat like a queen awaiting judgment—serene on the outside, storming within.

The Saudi ambassador, seated a few rows away, was her exact opposite. His eyes twitched with every second, lips moving in whispered prayers, fingers curling the edge of his robe. He wasn't praying for the future—he was praying to preserve the now.

Interspersed among them were high-level officials from financial institutions, each with a phone discreetly in hand, fingers poised to relay the verdict to their headquarters. A single ruling would shift markets, investments, careers. Some had already pre-written two versions of their statements—one for a win, one for a loss.

The press was here in force—pens gripped, cameras locked, eyes darting between faces. This wasn't just a court case anymore. With seventy million viewers globally, this had become the second most-watched legal proceeding in history, trailing only behind the O.J. Simpson trial.

The world was watching.

To the right side of the courtroom, Desmond Whittaker sat calmly, flanked by his team. His expression was a mask—unshaken, unreadable. But Nathaniel was there now, seated just behind them, arms folded tightly, his jaw clenched.

Desmond, however, had a slight grin tugging at the edge of his lips. Controlled, but telling.

On the left side of the courtroom sat Harvey, Jessica, and Elisabeth.

Jessica kept her face neutral, a faint smile dancing at the corner of her mouth.

Harvey was simmering—arms crossed, foot tapping in agitation. He hated this circus, hated sharing the floor, hated needing approval.

And Elisabeth? She was still, but not calm. Her eyes darted toward the courtroom doors again and again, her hands gripping the edge of her seat. There was fear there, but not just fear. Frustration. Rage. And something else—regret.

A bailiff entered.

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Wexler."

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A wave of movement passed through the courtroom as everyone stood. The door opened.

Judge Wexler entered with deliberate steps, his face tight with exhaustion but unwavering. The weight of the case had worn on him, yet it had not bent him. His robe moved with each step like the shadow of the gavel to come.

He climbed the steps to the bench and took his seat, slow and solemn. Silence spread.

He raised the gavel, then brought it down—sharp, clean, final.

BANG.

"You may be seated," he said, his voice calm but deep, resonating through the courtroom.

Everyone sat.

He took a long look across the room, his gaze moving over the rows of powerful people, over lawyers, cameras, legacies.

Then, with a quiet breath that didn't shake, he spoke.

"Now… let us end this."