The tension in the courtroom is palpable. Lance Stephenson fidgets in his seat as he awaits the judgement. Seven of his baby mamas sit in the gallery, some dabbing their eyes with tissues, and some browsing the TMZ website on their phones. Stephenson’s lawyer looks calm and composed in his perfectly tailored suit.
The judge walks in. He sits down and prepares to speak.
“On the charges of first-degree being a huge bust: not guilty.”
Stephenson’s face betrays no emotion.
“On the charges of being a me-first locker-room cancer: not guilty.”
One of the baby mamas breaks down in tears.
“On the charges of being a chucker extraordinaire: not guilty.”
“The defendant is cleared of all charges.”
Stephenson lets out a whoop of joy, reaching over to high-five his lawyer. Then, feeling the pressure of the charges lift away, he instead collapses, sobbing, into the arms of his lawyer and best friend, Roy Hibbert.
“I knew I wasn’t a bust, Roy, I knew it. All those bad things people said about me, all those accusations, man, those guys can rot in hell. We did it man, now no one can say that I’s an entitled, cancerous, shot-happy draft bust no more.”