Trust on Trial

Preface

Fool Me Once

Since the dawn of time, humanity has waged a never-ending battle against life’s greatest mind-bending debates. The chicken or the egg? The apple or the banana? Toilet paper: over or under? Sure, they’re fun to argue, but at the end of the day, does it really matter?

But what about the debates, the ones that split families, shatter friend-ships, and keep you staring at the ceiling at 3:00 a.m.? Creationism vs. evolution? Pro-life vs. pro-choice? What happens when we die? Is free will an illusion? And yet, of all the age-old questions, one remains the most perplexing, the most dangerous, the most unavoidable: why do we long for trust when betrayal lurks just around the corner?

Trust. We crave it. We build our lives around it. But the moment we grasp it too tightly, it slips through our fingers like we’re trying to catch the wind in our hands. They say the path to hell is paved with good intentions, but it’s riddled with potholes of misplaced trust that are deep, jarring, and impossible to avoid. The scars of broken trust have inspired sayings passed down from generation to generation:

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

“Never put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Trust but verify.”

Sure, these sayings are clever, memorable. But when has some clever catchphrase insulated our hearts from pain? And yet, despite these warnings, trust infiltrates every aspect of life. It’s the invisible currency that fuels friendships, powers institutions, and anchors faith itself. When rightly placed, trust is a stronghold. When misplaced, it leaves us in ruins.

This book begins with a simple yet profound question: What if Trust could stand trial?

Let’s imagine a packed courtroom. Humanity fills the seats, their hearts burdened with countless stories of betrayal. Every participant undoubtedly has felt the sting of broken trust at some point in their lives. And the defendant? Earnest Trust sits awkwardly at the defense table. He has been arrested and formally charged, and his fate hangs in the balance. Small beads of sweat form on his forehead, and there’s an ever-present crease between his brows. His dark hair is freshly cut. A fashionable faded combover is the style for this decade. Lines of exhaustion wrinkled throughout his face tell a story. His bloodshot, heavy eyes scan the room. He’s searching, hoping for understanding. He’s not looking for sympathy but for sanity. For someone, anyone who gets it. Because this? This is insane.

The initial shock has worn off, but disbelief clings to Earnest Trust like a bad habit. How did he end up here? How did it come to this? How could he be on trial? It’s almost laughable, if it weren’t so tragic. His wrists, barely visible underneath his shirt cuffs, show circular purple bruising, reminders of the sheer reality of this moment. Around the room, whispers run rampant. Some lean forward, consumed by anger, eager to see Trust convicted, while others hold onto hope and the belief that Trust, when rightly placed, is humanity’s only salvation.

So, how did we get here? The truth is simple: we put him here. Humanity is the architect of this moment. Trust has become an object we chase, question, and so often condemn. We forget that the strength of Trust isn’t in its nature but in where we place it. And humanity has now taken it one step further, accusing the very thing we so desperately cling to.

As the courtroom files in and the jury takes their seats, the questions loom larger than ever: Is Trust guilty? Or has humanity placed an impossible burden on something so fragile and fundamental?

This trial is no ordinary affair. Witnesses from all walks of life line up to testify: a who’s who of voices hardened by betrayal, others unshaken by faith, and a mix of everything in between. The prosecution presents a devastating lineup: betrayed lovers, disillusioned employees, the neglected child, an investor robbed of their life savings, the skeptical philosopher, and finally the atheist. Each one is a living testament to Trust’s failures.

The defense presents its own lineup: a stark contrast of endurance and resilience, rooted in their convictions, established to inflict layers of reasonable doubt. They have the historian and archeologist, the college students rallying for what’s right, the soldier trapped behind enemy lines, and the former atheist turned Christian philosopher. Each of their lives is living proof that Trust, when rightly placed, is the foundation of hope and redemption.

So, stick around; this is just a taste of what’s to come.

This trial isn’t some boring old lecture; it’s an experience. As the trial unfolds, more witnesses will step forward. More evidence will surface. The deeper we go, we’ll peel back the layers of history, faith, and humanity’s deepest questions.

And when the final gavel strikes? You won’t just be watching like some innocent bystander. You’ll be forced to decide.

Congratulations, dear reader. You’re here to judge. Everyone’s favorite pastime. Because you are the jury. You’ll sift through the evidence, contemplate the testimonies, and twist under the weight of humanity’s deepest wounds as they’re paraded around on full display. No pressure, right?

Wrong.

By the end of this trial, you will render the final verdict. But the real kicker? This isn’t just about Trust. It’s about you—your choices, your letdowns, your situations and circumstances, and ultimately, your future.

In its purest form, Trust is a force of nature, a double-edged sword, a parachute you hope will work when you jump. It’s the invisible glue holding the world together, even when it feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

We risk it every single day. Sometimes it holds. Sometimes it shatters. And regardless of how the pendulum swings, we keep on trusting. It’s like we have amnesia or short-term memory loss. Maybe we do. Maybe it’s stubbornness or hard-headedness. Or maybe we just can’t help ourselves.

This trial is a mirror. A reflection of the hurts, pains, and questions we ask ourselves every day:

• Why do we trust?

• Why does it fail?

• And can it ever be restored?

The tension is thicker than a snicker. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

This trial holds the foundations of faith, love, and the entire human experience in its hands. Are you ready?

Because there’s no turning back now.

The trial of Trust is here. The jury is called. The evidence awaits. What will you decide?

Introduction

Opening Statements

Welcome to the stage for the greatest show on Earth. Justice for all. Intricately carved, towering double doors stare back at you, daring you to step inside. The dark oak paneling and faded walls are polished just enough to reflect the shifting light. Their height is immense, daunting, mocking the insignificance of each individual passing through.

Crown molding wraps around the room. Its intricate carvings resemble vines or maybe chains, depending on your perspective. Situated at the front of the courtroom is the judge’s bench. A throne of authority. Elevated to command the room. The sounding block is a testament to the relentless pounding of gavels past.

Hanging prominently behind the judge’s bench are the Ten Commandments. Etched in cold, unyielding stone. It’s a constant reminder of the battle between right and wrong. Permanent. Unchanging. Always watching.

There’s an aged off-white hue looking down on you from the vaulted ceiling. It holds the weight of countless verdicts, echoes of shattered lives, and sighs of relief. Light trickles through the frosted glass windows, casting faint patterns across the splintered marble floor.

And in the center lies a grand seal, embedded deep into the foundation. Embossed with the words: “IN GOD WE TRUST.” A declaration, a reminder that God’s fingerprints are everywhere. Even here, especially here. Woven into the tapestry of justice itself.

The courtroom is standing room only. Every seat is occupied. Whispers swirl from bow to stern. A pen clicks. Someone in the gallery clears their throat. Another person exhales just a little too loudly. Even the bailiff, normally stoic, shifts his weight from one foot to another. Every creak of a chair, every rustle of paper, and every second that ticks by on the antique clock amplifies the tension. Every watchful eye is burning a hole through the defendant seated at the defense table.

There he is. Earnest Trust. The accused. He whispers silently to his defense attorney, awaiting the proceedings to commence. He leans back over and holds his head high. His shoulders rest at ease. He smooths the front of his jacket and lightly brushes the hem of his pants. He rubs his finger across his dark brows before clasping his hands together. He’s like a skilled poker player who knows when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.

Trust is a puzzling figure. Equal parts striking and forgettable. Look at him once, and he seems sincere, warm. The guy you’d spill your deepest, darkest secrets to over coffee. Look again: stone-faced, cold, and distant. Like the Thing from Fantastic Four: unreadable, immovable, and impossible to relate to.

And his patchwork suit is confusing chaos. Silk next to burlap. Denim stitched into velvet. The seams don’t exactly line up. The fabric clashes in the worst possible way. It’s elegant and ugly at the same time. I think the fashionistas call that “trendsetting.” Sheer genius. A work of art. A fitting embodiment of a guy like Earnest Trust. Beautiful when it holds; hideous when it breaks.

Earnest Trust has an invisible pull to him. It’s like gravity or standing too close to the edge of a cliff, unsure if the ground beneath you will hold . . . or crumble. It makes you want to lean in, while you hang on to his every move.

His arrest? That was the most mundane part of this whole fiasco. Swift and without incident. No resistance. No fighting. But this trial? This is something else entirely. This case isn’t about one broken pinky promise or a “Sorry, I forgot to text back.” This isn’t some petty theft case or a Judge Judy episode screaming over unpaid rent. Oh no. Today, Trust stands accused of fraud and breach of contract. The People want justice. They’re not just seeking financial damages, they want compensation for every broken heart, every shattered dream, and a lifetime of asking, “Why me?” This is the trial of the century. The People v. Trust.

And by the time it’s over, one thing will be clear. The events that follow will either redeem or destroy Trust.

“All rise,” the bailiff announces, his words booming through the courtroom. “The honorable Judge Steele presiding.”

Enter stage right, Judge Steele, a domineering figure of unwavering authority. His slicked-back, silver-gray hair doesn’t move as he races into the courtroom. His robe billows behind him. His imposing gaze seems to peer into the very souls of the room. He’s all business and gets straight to the matter at hand. He raises the wooden gavel and strikes the sounding block with the force of Thor’s hammer, silencing the courtroom.

*BOOM*

Court is now in session.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is no ordinary trial. Today, Earnest Trust stands accused. Not as a concept or an idea, but as a force having wormed its way into the fabric of our existence. The People charge Trust with two counts: fraud and breach of contract. The prosecution will argue beyond a reasonable doubt that Trust is guilty of those crimes and is unreliable, fragile, and fundamentally dangerous. The defense will argue to the contrary that the fault lies not with Trust but with where and how it is placed.”

Judge Steele’s gaze sweeps across the room, pinning every juror to their seats. Locking eyes like a heat-seeking missile. “As the jury, your role is paramount. The verdict you render will ripple far beyond this courtroom. It will have a far-reaching impact, affecting the way humanity perceives relationships, faith, and even the divine. The stakes don’t get any higher.”

He pauses, letting the profound weight press down like an elephant sitting on your chest. “Prosecution, you may begin with your opening statement.”

The attorney for the prosecution, Curtis Reed, struts around the courtroom like a peacock. He’s in his late thirties and his slicked-back, dark brown hair shines in the courtroom. Not a single hair is out of place. He holds his chin high. His shoulders back. Exuding a holier-than-thou arrogance about him. Acting like he owns the place. And in his mind, he does.

Every meticulous detail is about keeping up appearances. And he spares no expense. His navy blue suit is sharp, tailored to perfection. It radiates intimidation and smugness. The kind that whispers, “Look at me, I’m richer than you.” His tie is the pigment of blood. A power play that says, “I’m here to win at all costs.” Reed’s face is straight out of a used car salesman’s playbook. Ridiculously cheesy and just shady enough to make you check your pockets. This is a man who’s never lost a case and doesn’t plan on starting now.

Reed’s voice is smooth, polished. Meticulously rehearsed and under control. In Reed’s mind, the verdict is a foregone conclusion, and he’s just going through the motions. His words are carefully constructed for maximum impact. Every word is precise. Every syllable is pronounced. Every pause is designed to make a point. Every hand gesture resembles a maestro conducting a symphony of manipulation. And the jury is his audience.

Curtis Reed rises slowly, adjusting his cufflinks. He steps forward, unhurried. Each measured step lets the silence hang a little more, as his expensive shoes echo to the beat of his drum. Reed is a walking ego trip, and the jury eats it up. He stops just short of the jury box, adjusts his tie, buttons his jacket, and addresses the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today we put one of the most dangerous defendants in history on trial. Earnest Trust is so fundamental, so universal, that he has touched every single person in the courtroom.

Reed stalks the jury box like a predator. “Trust is a fraud. He egregiously breaches his contracts without any regard for the parties involved.

He’s a con artist in a suit. He whispers, ‘Everything will be okay,’ right before yanking the rug out from under you. He smiles, lulling you to sleep before a nightmare shakes you awake in a panic. And we let him. Over and over again.

“But today, we say, no more! Trust is not just fragile; he’s dangerous. Trust is an invitation to heartbreak, betrayal, and pain. Trust manipulates us into believing in systems, in people, and even in a God who cannot or will not live up to the demands. And each and every one of you have paid a hefty price.”

Reed theatrically pauses before raising his voice. “Let me remind you, you are not just the jurors here. You are the victims. Trust has wronged every one of you. You’ve trusted friends who’ve stabbed you in the back.

You’ve trusted employers who’ve tossed you aside. You’ve trusted in institutions that have failed you. And you’ve trusted promises that evaporated into thin air. And for what? For heartbreak? For betrayal? For lost opportunities? For sleepless nights? Wondering, ‘Why did I believe their lies?’

“Today, we charge Trust with two counts.

• Fraud: For deceiving humanity into believing it is reliable.

• Breach of Contract: For failing to deliver on its promises of safety, security, and connection.

“And we are seeking damages that fit these heinous crimes. Compensation for every broken heart, every lost opportunity, and every sleepless night.”

While Reed delivers his opening statements, Trust listens intently. If he feels accused, he doesn’t show it. He’s motionless, under control. No flinching, no frowning, no subtle hints of guilt, no rolling of the eyes. Just a quiet resolve.

It must be irritating Reed because he doesn’t like that. Not one, little, bit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear testimonies from people whose lives were shattered by misplaced Trust. You’ll hear from children abandoned by their parents, friends betrayed by those closest to them, and employees discarded by the companies they sacrificed daily for. We will present exhibits that illustrate how Trust doesn’t lead to freedom, but despair. Trust isolates us behind walls of fear and handcuffs us to the desk. And these are not isolated incidents. They show a dangerous pattern.”

Reed turns and points his bony index finger right at the defendant.

“Look at the defendant. Are we supposed to feel sorry for him? He’s an arrogant and pompous manipulator. He’s left every single one of us broken and abandoned. And now he wants to pretend that he’s somehow the victim in all this.”

But Trust doesn’t back down. He never looks down or away. He meets Reed’s glare head-on and dismisses his pointy little finger with intensity. Challenge accepted. He embraces the accusations brought by the prosecution.

The courtroom is so silent you can hear a pin drop.

“And perhaps most damning of all, Trust doesn’t just fail in human relationships. The prosecution will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Trust, when placed in God’s hands, is tested, is dragged to its breaking point, and fails under pressure.

“If God is to be trusted, why does He allow suffering? Why does He permit evil to flourish? Why does He stay silent when people cry out?

“Now, I know you must be asking yourself, ‘God? Why are we dragging God into this? What does God have to do with this trial?’ It’s a fair question. The reason is that Trust and God are inseparable. Intertwined. Tangled together and attached at the hip. Trust isn’t just a feeling; it’s the foundation for faith itself. If you want to believe in something greater than yourself, what do you need? You need to have faith. Trust forms the basis of faith. Trust is the invisible glue holding every relationship, every belief, every leap of faith together. Make no mistake, God is NOT the one on trial today. Trust is. But we can’t ignore this important connection. We can’t pretend that one can stand without the other. If we do that, we’ve already lost.

“Our case is simple: Trust is unreliable and irredeemable. He cannot withstand the weight of human expectations. He breaks, he fails, and he leaves scars that last a lifetime.

“This trial is about more than Trust. It’s about you. About your pain, your suffering, your questions, and, ultimately, your future. By the end of this trial, you will have to answer one simple question: Can you afford to Trust anyone or anything again?”

Reed steps back. His voice drops to a whisper. “The case against Trust is just beginning. As we dive further into this case, I want you to ask yourself: Will you continue to place your trust in a defendant that has failed you time and time again? Will you allow this vicious cycle to continue? Or will you render the only verdict that makes sense? GUILTY!”

Reed stops. He takes a moment to look each juror up and down before returning to his seat. His words are like smoke, suffocating the air.

The defense attorney, Harvey Shield, comes into focus. If Reed is a shark . . . sharp teeth, all gas, no brakes, and smells blood in the water, then Shield is a . . . NO, not a minnow. We aren’t playing sharks and minnows. Shield is more like a dolphin—intelligent, curious, bold. He’s the embodiment of being cooler than the other side of the pillow. He’s older than Reed, in his late fifties. His hair is freshly cut and parted to the side with silver and brown expertly mixed together. His suit is a modest, charcoal gray that hangs off his body and poofs out in all the wrong places. His dark leather belt holds up pants that are two sizes too big. His tie is like a clear sky after a rainy day. It’s a soothing display of subtlety. Where Reed is swagger and showmanship, Shield is no-nonsense.

Shield’s face wrinkles and droops artfully, showing signs of some battles lost and others won, each one inflicting a personal toll. Shield’s piercing blue eyes are x-rays that cut through the theatrics, searching for the truth. His voice is smooth. He doesn’t rush and never seems to hurry. He has an uncanny ability to make complex arguments sound simple, relating to the jurors on a personal level.

Shield doesn’t need theatrics. He doesn’t shout and wave his arms like he’s flagging down a 747. His words do the talking. Reed is unquestionably the offensive weapon and Shield is the armor, the barrier between his client and the barrage of ammo fired by the enemy.

Harvey Shield rises slowly. He adjusts his tie, buttons his jacket, and steps toward the jury.

“Wow. That was . . . a lot. Reed really knows how to put on a show, doesn’t he? The passion. The drama. If this lawyering thing doesn’t work out, he’s got a career in Broadway waiting for him.

“In all seriousness, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Shield takes a moment to look each juror in the eyes. “Trust sits before you today as the defendant—not as a heated debate for philosophy class but as a real person accused of actual crimes.”

Shield steps back, placing a hand in his pocket. “The prosecution has leveled serious charges against Trust. Fraud. Breach of contract. These are big words with severe consequences. Let’s examine these charges more closely, shall we?

“Fraud? The prosecution claims Trust deceives us. Promising safety and connection only to deliver pain and betrayal. But deception is not inherent to Trust. Trust cannot give what it does not have. Deception comes from those who abuse Trust, from those who manipulate Trust for their own self-interest. Trust is not a fraud. Trust is not a con artist. Trust is a gift, a gift we far too often take for granted, misuse, and abuse at our own peril.”

Shield lets the jury stew on that for a moment.

“Breach of contract? The prosecution argues that Trust cannot deliver on its promises. But what promises are we talking about? Trust isn’t a contract. It’s an agreement involving two parties. The problem is that we place our Trust in people and systems that were never meant to carry that type of weight. Only one can bear the full burden of that weight without failing. Only one is worthy of our confidence. And that is God Himself.

“Before we move on, I just want to take a moment to touch on something the prosecution mentioned. Because, folks, did you catch what Mr. Reed said? He brought up faith. He brought up God. He made the connection between Trust, faith, and God. And he is absolutely right. You cannot talk about Trust without talking about God and vice versa. Trust is woven into every relationship we have, and faith is no different. Faith is only as strong as where you place it.

“Throughout this case, the truth will show what happens when you place Trust in the wrong hands and what happens when you place Trust in the right ones.

“The prosecution has painted a grim picture, hasn’t he? Trust is a con artist. A losing hand. A house of cards ready to collapse at a moment’s notice. He is a threat to society and a danger to us all.”

Shield leans in like a space invader. “What the prosecution expertly forgot to mention is that Trust is none of those things. Trust isn’t the villain here. He’s the patsy, the scapegoat, the source of blame because people hate holding themselves accountable.”

Shield motions towards the defendant. “And isn’t that the truth? People have used and abused Earnest Trust. He’s endured every trial, every betrayal, every lie, every broken promise right alongside each of us. And yet, he still shows up. He still reaches out. He still fights for connection. I call that endurance. Resilience.”

As Shield pleads his argument, Trust shifts in his chair. He leans forward slightly, staring at the jury. He purses his lips together and tightens his clasped hangs. Trust scans the jury, looking like he wants to speak, to explain himself, to tell his side of the story. But he can’t. Now is not the time.

Shield continues. “Ladies and gentlemen, don’t allow the prosecution to mislead you by pulling at your heartstrings. The prosecution wants to convince you that Trust is inherently broken. But Trust is vital. The prosecution wants to focus on the negative aspects of Trust and lock away all of the positives. There are two sides to every story, two sides to every coin. Trust is not the criminal here. He is a mirror. When placed in the right hands, Trust reflects stability, hope, and life-changing connection. When placed in the wrong hands, Trust reflects human weakness, misplaced priorities, and the pain of betrayal.

“And that’s the real issue, isn’t it?

“We place our trust in all the wrong things. We Trust in flawed people, in failing systems, in fleeting ideas. And when they let us down? We don’t blame ourselves. Instead, we have to blame something else, someone else. So, what do we do? We shift the blame onto someone else, and today, that someone is Earnest Trust.

“But let me ask you. Is it fair to blame the foundation for the cracks in a poorly built house?” Shield shakes his head. “Trust is the foundation of love, connection, and faith. Without Trust, we become isolated, suspicious, and fearful. Yes, misplaced Trust can lead to pain. But rightly placed Trust is unshakable, unbreakable, and transformational.”

Shield slowly sweeps his hand across the jury, taking a personal tone.

“When you cross a bridge, do you blame the act of walking if the bridge collapses? Or do you blame the builder? Trust is the act of crossing the bridge. Because Trust is not the problem, the bridge is. The prosecution will show you failed bridges. Betrayals. Corruption. Failing institutions. False promises. On and on and on down the line. All in an attempt to say, ‘Look! Do you see what Trust did? Trust is dangerous. Trust is a lie. Off with its head.’

“But the answer isn’t to abandon Trust. When we get knocked down, the right response is to get back up again. The answer is obvious. Why not build stronger bridges? Why not place our Trust where it belongs, in the hands of one who never fails? The answer is the Most High God who never fails and is completely trustworthy.”

Shield looks across the sea of jurors. “This trial isn’t about abandoning Trust. It’s about asking the right question. Have we been placing our Trust in the wrong things all along?”

Pausing, he allows the jury time to truly consider the question. “Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution wants you to condemn Trust. They’ll scream that a verdict of guilty is the only option, that you must lock Trust away forever in the prison of your doubts and throw away the key. They want you to let your pain dictate your decision. But isn’t that manipulation?

“But we will show you the truth. We will present undeniable proof to the contrary. We will call witnesses who have endured unimaginable hardships and found healing, hope, and renewal through Trust. And why is that? It’s because they placed their Trust in the right hands. This is not a myth. This is not a theory. These are the facts.

“This is a defense built on sound logic and reasoning, on irrefutable evidence, and ultimately, on the truth. I’m here to challenge you. Don’t let the failures of flawed people and flawed systems rob you of the freedom that comes from placing your trust in the right hands, in the one who never fails.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this trial is not just about the fate of Trust. It’s about your future, your heart, your soul. And by the time this trial is over, the choice will be abundantly clear. You, the jury, will issue a resounding verdict of NOT Guilty.

“Thank you.”

Mic drop.

Shield walks back to his seat, slightly nodding his head and winking in the direction of Earnest Trust.

The opening statements have been delivered. The battle lines are drawn. And now, the real fight begins.

The prosecution has a mountain of witnesses with stories so gut-wrenching, so heartbreaking even the Grinch’s heart would ache. They have betrayal, heartbreak, and disappointment at their ever beck and call. They’ll pile it on thick, shouting from the rooftops that Trust is guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. Trust has failed you, lied to you, and left you for dead.

But the defense will counter with a calculated witness list of their own. People who had every reason to walk away from Trust forever. People who were betrayed. People who were broken. People who should’ve given up. People who should’ve just stayed down for the ten count. But they didn’t. Instead, they found something else. They found resilience, redemption, and unshakable hope.

And let’s not forget the exhibits in this trial. Tangible, cold, hard evidence of Trust’s impact on the world. It cuts both ways, leaving a lasting impression. On one side, it’s damning. Brutal. An open-and-shut case of deception, betrayal, and a lifetime of Trust’s failures. The other side? Kicking and screaming redemption, itching for a second chance. And neither side is going down without a fight.

The prosecution will try to bury Trust under an avalanche of proof. They’ll show you the scars, the shattered lives, the empty promises, the unequivocal guilt of Trust through and through. Exhibit A? The forbidden fruit. The apple from Eden. The moment the silver-tongued charlatan, the serpent, eroded the foundation of perfect trust by planting a seed...