“Mr. Ford claims my client has no assets and no representation. That is now moot. Furthermore, Mr. Simmons claims that the assets in question—the penthouse on Fifth Avenue, the house in the Hamptons, and the portfolio at Goldman Sachs—are his sole property protected by a prenuptial agreement signed seven years ago.”
“That prenup is ironclad!” Keith shouted. “She gets nothing! She signed it!”
Catherine turned to Keith. She took off her glasses again. “Mr. Simmons, do you know who wrote the standard template for the spousal coercion clause used in the state of New York?”
Keith blinked. “What?”
“I did,” Catherine said softly. “In 1998, I drafted the legislation that defines exactly what constitutes coercion when signing a marital contract.” She tapped the document on Garrison’s table. “And according to the sworn affidavit my daughter provided this morning, you threatened to kill her cat and cut off her access to her sick grandmother’s nursing home funds if she didn’t sign that paper the night before the wedding.”
The courtroom gasped.
“That’s a lie!” Keith screamed, his face turning purple. “She’s a liar!”
“We also have the text messages from that night,” Catherine continued, her voice rising just enough to cut through his shouting. “Recovered from the cloud server you thought you wiped. Exhibit C, Your Honor.”
Judge Henderson flipped to Exhibit C. His eyebrows shot up.
Garrison Ford was flipping through the pages frantically. Sweat was beading on his forehead. “Your Honor, we… we haven’t had time to review this evidence. This is an ambush!”
“An ambush?” Catherine laughed. It was a terrifying sound. “Mr. Ford, you tried to default judgment a woman with no lawyer while your client mocked her to her face. You don’t get to complain about fairness. Now, let’s talk about the finances.”
Catherine turned back to the gallery, addressing the room as if she were lecturing a class of law students.
“Mr. Simmons claims his net worth is roughly eight million dollars. A respectable sum for a man of his… limited talents.”
Keith looked like he was about to have a stroke.
“However,” Catherine said, pulling out a second, thicker binder. “My team of forensic accountants—who, by the way, usually track terrorist financing for the Pentagon—spent the last twelve hours tracing the intricate web of shell companies Mr. Simmons set up in the Cayman Islands and Cyprus.”
She dropped the second binder. Thud.
“It appears, Your Honor, that Mr. Simmons has be funneling marital assets into a holding company called Apex Ventures for five years. The total amount hidden is not eight million.”
Catherine leaned in close to Keith, her face inches from his.
“It’s twenty-four million dollars. And since you failed to disclose it on your financial affidavit signed under penalty of perjury this morning…”
Catherine smiled at the judge.
“…that constitutes felony fraud.”
Keith slumped back into his chair. He looked at Garrison. “Do something,” he hissed.
Garrison Ford looked at the documents. He looked at the judge, who was glaring at Keith with burning intensity. Then he looked at Catherine Bennett, who was checking her manicured nails.
“I need a recess,” Garrison croaked.
“Request denied,” Judge Henderson said instantly. “I want to hear more about these Cayman accounts. Ms. Bennett, please proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. But before we get to the fraud, I’d like to address the matter of the mockery my client endured regarding her lack of a lawyer.”
She walked back to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. For the first time, I looked up at my mother and smiled—a genuine, hopeful smile.
“Keith,” Catherine said, her voice dropping to a conversational, almost intimate tone. “You mocked my daughter because you thought she was weak. You thought that because she is kind, she is defenseless. You mistook her silence for surrender.”
Catherine turned to the court reporter.
“Let the record show,” she stated clearly, “that Grace Simmons is now represented by Catherine Bennett. And I am not here to negotiate a settlement, Mr. Ford.”
She looked at Keith, her eyes flashing with a cold, hard light.
“I am here to take everything. The house, the cars, the hidden money, the reputation. I am going to peel your life apart layer by layer until you are left with exactly what you tried to leave my daughter with.”
“Nothing.”
“Mr. Ford,” Catherine said, gesturing to the podium. “Your witness.”
The courtroom air had shifted. It was no longer stale. It was electric. The few spectators in the back—mostly bored law clerks and retirees—were now leaning forward, their phones out, texting friends that something major was happening in Courtroom 304.
Judge Henderson rubbed his temples. “Mr. Ford, do you wish to cross-examine? Well, I suppose there is no witness yet. Ms. Bennett, you have the floor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Catherine said, standing tall. “I call Keith Simmons to the stand as a hostile witness.”
Keith froze. He looked at Garrison Ford. “Do I have to?”
“You’re the plaintiff, you idiot,” Garrison whispered harshly, wiping sweat from his upper lip. “Get up there. And for the love of God, don’t lie. She knows everything.”
Keith walked to the witness stand. His legs felt heavy. He sat down, and the bailiff swore him in. He looked out at the court, trying to regain his composure. He was Keith Simmons. He was a successful businessman. He was the man who made the deals. This old woman was just bluffing.
Catherine walked to the podium. She didn’t bring any papers. She just rested her hands on the wood and looked at him.
“Mr. Simmons,” she began, her voice deceptively light. “Let’s talk about the ‘traffic’ you mentioned earlier. The traffic that delayed my daughter.”
Keith scoffed nervously. “It was a figure of speech. She’s always late. She’s disorganized.”
“Disorganized?” Catherine repeated. “Is that why you handled all the finances in the marriage? Because Grace was too disorganized to understand numbers?”
“Exactly,” Keith said, gaining confidence. “Grace is a dreamer. She paints. She volunteers at the animal shelter. She doesn’t understand ROI or equity positions. I did everything to protect our future.”
“To protect your future?” Catherine nodded. “Is that why you purchased a condo in Miami on March 14th of this year? The one listed under Simmons Holdings LLC?”
Keith blinked. “That… That was an investment property. For the portfolio.”
“Strange,” Catherine said. “Because according to the credit card statements associated with that property—statements you tried to shred, but which your assistant, poor overworked Ms. Higgins, forgot to delete from the digital recycling bin—you bought furniture for a nursery.”
I gasped in the gallery. My hand flew to my mouth.
Keith turned pale. “It… It was staging. For resale value.”
“Staging?” Catherine said, stepping closer. “And the diamond tennis bracelet purchased from Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue three days later? Was that for staging too? Or was that for the woman living in the condo?”
“Objection!” Garrison Ford stood up, though he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. “Relevance, Your Honor. New York is a no-fault divorce state. Infidelity doesn’t impact the division of assets.”
“It does when marital funds were used to facilitate it,” Judge Henderson ruled, his eyes narrowing at Keith. “Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Simmons.”
Keith gripped the railing of the witness box. “I… I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Catherine smiled. It was the smile of a predator who tasted blood.
“You don’t? Okay, let’s move on from the mistress for a moment. We’ll circle back to Sasha later.”
Keith flinched at the name.
“Let’s talk about your company, Apex Ventures,” Catherine continued. “You swore in your affidavit that your income last year was four hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s correct,” Keith said quickly. “The market was down.”
“The market was down,” Catherine mocked. She turned to the jury box—which was empty, as this was a bench trial—then back to the judge. “Your Honor, I have here bank records from the First National Bank of Cyprus. They show a wire transfer of two million dollars entering an account controlled by Apex Ventures on the exact same day Mr. Simmons claimed the market was down.”
She held up a piece of paper.
“And here is the withdrawal slip. Mr. Simmons, can you tell the court what you used that two million dollars for?”
Keith stayed silent. His throat was dry.
“I’ll help you,” Catherine said. “You bought cryptocurrency. Specifically, an untraceable coin that you stored on a cold-storage hard drive. A hard drive that is currently sitting in a safety deposit box at the Grand Central Branch of Chase Bank. Box number 404.”
Keith’s jaw dropped. “How? How did you…”
“I’m Katherine Bennett,” she said simply. “Finding money is what I do. Now, here is the problem, Keith. You didn’t declare that two million. You didn’t declare the crypto. And you certainly didn’t share it with your wife.”
Catherine leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried across the silent room.
“You mocked my daughter for not having a lawyer. You thought she was stupid. But the only stupid thing in this room, Keith, is thinking you could steal two million dollars, hide it in a box, and then parade your girlfriend around Miami while my daughter clipped coupons to buy groceries.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Keith shouted, cracking under the pressure. “It’s my money! I earned it! She just sat at home painting stupid pictures! She didn’t contribute anything! Why should she get half of my genius?”
The courtroom went dead silent.
Judge Henderson looked at Keith with pure disgust.
“Mr. Simmons, did you just admit on the record that the money exists and that you intentionally hid it to prevent your wife from receiving her equitable share?”
Keith looked at the judge, then at Garrison. Garrison had his face buried in his hands.
“I…” Keith stammered.
“No further questions for this witness,” Catherine said, turning her back on him.
She walked back to the table and sat down next to me. I was crying silently. Catherine reached out and took my hand, squeezing it tight.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “He’s done.”
Keith Simmons had just admitted to perjury and fraud in open court. The judge was furious. Garrison Ford, realizing his career was about to implode, stood up.
“Your Honor,” Garrison said, his voice steady. “At this time, I must respectfully move to withdraw as counsel for the plaintiff.”
Keith’s eyes bulged. “What? You can’t quit! I paid you a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer!”
“An ethical conflict has arisen,” Garrison continued, ignoring Keith. “I cannot suborn perjury. Based on the testimony my client just gave, my continued representation would compromise my professional obligations.”
Translation: He lied. He got caught. And I’m not going down with him.
“You coward!” Keith screamed. He lunged at Garrison. “I pay you! You work for me!”
“Bailiff!” Judge Henderson shouted.
Officer Kowalski slammed Keith back into his chair.
“Mr. Ford,” Judge Henderson said. “I am referring the transcript of today’s hearing to the District Attorney’s office for potential charges regarding perjury and wire fraud against your client. Now, let’s finish this.”
The judge issued a temporary ruling immediately.
“First, I am freezing all assets belonging to Keith Simmons. Second, I am awarding Mrs. Simmons immediate, exclusive use of the marital residence on Fifth Avenue and the Hamptons property. Mr. Simmons, you have two hours to vacate. If you remove a single light bulb, I will have you arrested.”
“Third, Mr. Simmons will pay one hundred percent of Mrs. Simmons’ legal fees.”
“Court is adjourned!”
As the room cleared, Keith sat there, stunned. In two hours, he had gone from a multi-millionaire playboy to a potential felon with nowhere to sleep.
I walked out with my mother, feeling lighter than I had in years. But the story wasn’t quite over yet.
As we stepped out onto the courthouse steps, blinking in the bright Manhattan sunlight, a black sedan pulled up. The window rolled down. A man sat in the back seat. He was older, with silver hair and a face carved from granite.
“Dad?” I whispered.
Catherine stiffened. “William.”
“Hello, Catherine,” my father said. “I saw the news. The Iron Gavel returns.” He looked at me. “Grace. It’s been a long time.”
My father. The man who had sided with Keith when we first got married because it was a “good business merger.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m here,” William said, opening the car door, “because Keith Simmons owes me money. A lot of money. And I heard you two just took everything he has.”
He stepped out holding a document. “Keith put up the Fifth Avenue penthouse as collateral for a private loan from my firm, Ironclad Capital, six months ago. He defaulted yesterday. That apartment belongs to me.”
I felt the ground shift. Just when I thought I had won, the past came back to haunt me.
“Dad, how could you?” I whispered. “You’re kicking me out?”
“It’s business, Grace,” William said coldly. “I can’t write off a two-million-dollar loss.”
Catherine Bennett didn’t flinch. She stepped closer to William, snatched the document from his hand, and scanned it with laser-like precision.
“Section four, clause B,” Catherine read aloud, her tone mocking. “The borrower certifies that they have sole and unencumbered ownership of the collateral property.“
She looked up at William over the rim of her sunglasses.
“Did you run a title search, William? Or did you just trust the man who calls you ‘Sir’?”
“Keith’s name is on the deed,” William frowned.
“His name is on the copy he showed you,” Catherine corrected. She pulled a blue folder from her bag. “But in 2018, I convinced Keith to transfer the property into a family trust. The bylaws state that using the property as collateral requires the signature of both beneficiaries.”
She pointed to the signature line on William’s document. There was a scrawl that looked like Grace Simmons, but it was shaky.
“He forged it,” I whispered.
“Exactly,” Catherine said. “So, William, you are holding a void contract based on a forged signature. Which means you have no claim on the apartment. And you are out two million dollars.”
William’s face turned gray. “That bastard. He scammed me.”
“He did,” Catherine agreed. “Now, you can walk away and go after Keith personally, or you can try to evict Grace, and I will sue Ironclad Capital for predatory lending. I’ll tie your firm up in litigation for so long your grandchildren will be the ones settling the case.”
William looked at Catherine, then at me. He saw the strength in my jaw—strength I inherited from my mother.
“What do you want?” William asked.
“Apologize to her,” Catherine said. “And then leave.”
William sighed. “Grace… I didn’t know about the forgery. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said softly. “You can go now. I have a lunch date with my lawyer.”
William got back in his car and drove away.
Catherine turned to me with a warm, genuine smile. “Well, that’s handled. Now, about that lunch. I believe we have twenty years of catching up to do.”
I wrapped my arms around her. “I missed you, Mom.”
“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she whispered, holding me tight. “I’m not going anywhere this time.”
Three months later, the gallery in Chelsea was packed. The exhibition was titled Rebirth.
I stood in the center of the room wearing a stunning red dress, laughing with a group of art collectors. The centerpiece painting, titled The Gavel, depicted a figure of light breaking through chains of darkness. It had a red dot next to it. Sold.
From the corner, Catherine watched with pride. She checked her phone. A news alert: Disgraced Executive Keith Simmons Sentenced to 5 Years for Wire Fraud.
He had lost everything. The money, the women, the reputation, and his freedom.
Catherine smiled, put her phone away, and walked over to me.
“You’re sold out,” she noted.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “Mom, thank you. If you hadn’t walked through those doors…”
“You would have found your way eventually,” she said. “You’re stronger than you think, Grace. I just helped you finish the fight.”
Keith Simmons learned the hard way that silence isn’t weakness. It’s just a pause before the reload. He thought he could strip me of my dignity, but he underestimated the unstoppable force of a mother’s love mixed with a top-tier legal degree.
I was no longer the woman in the gray dress. I was Grace Bennett Simmons—artist, survivor, and daughter of the Iron Gavel. And I had a lot of painting left to do.
