“Where it began…” begins Bankman-Fried. He’s wearing long pants now, hair trimmed, no beanbag in sight. He gulps. “I… can’t begin to knowing.”
The prosecution zooms in on the enormous number labeled “fiat@“. Nearby, the courtroom sketch artist scribbles a dream sequence of a Corolla careening through the halls of a vast island mansion. The car is wearing shorts.
SBF clears his throat. “But then, I know it’s growing strong.”
The jury is shown a slide with a graph of Terra’s death spiral. In bounces an animation of the logos of Voyager and BlockFi, with a boing which someone hastily mutes.
“Was in the spring.” He manages a rueful smile. “Then spring became the summer.” We see an even larger fiat@ in an even larger font.
Perhaps that’s defeat in Bankman-Fried’s gaze, or perhaps dextroamphetamine. He looks the judge straight in the eye and shakes his head.
“Who’d have believed you’d come along?”
The prosecutor thanks him, says that’s all they need, tells him to sit down.
But now Bankman-Fried appears frozen to the spot for an extra beat, eyes glued to the star witness now rising to approach the stand.
Then he breaks from his trance and walks to his seat. As they pass each other, for the slightest instant, hand touches hand. Decades later, in idle moments doodling spreadsheets on his cell wall, he will think of this moment, wondering: who reached out? Did you touch me, or did I touch you?