When this is over, when some are jailed, some bankrupt, some dead from bullets to the back of the head, some poisoned, some kidnapped, one will remain. Perhaps outside a federal correction center, perhaps at a tower in a city, perhaps, but most likely at a cemetery in a prestigious part of New Jersey, the one, this child, savant-like, mocked in life, now grinning, will stand, lightly caressing the hand of his mother, who will be behind him, her fingers on his shoulders. She, the papers will say, will be in a Boss FS_Cudrape'; he in a Armani Collezioni--cashmere and conceit, these two, rich and repellent. She will be in sunglasses, oval and monogrammed, though the day will be overcast and frigid; his hair, thick and beautiful. He will not be stoic, for he is not remorseful. He will be free. John John saluted; he will not. That thought makes him smile. A limousine will be idling nearby, its driver, also in sunglasses, will be leaning, arms folded, against the passenger side, waiting to take the mother and son to the airport, to Europe and beyond, to millions and properties in countries that have left the EU, to anonymity and power. A man will be talking and making crosses in the air, a casket will be lowered. Siblings have been banished. The mother will pat his shoulders twice. The son will be named Barron and his mother will love him deeply. The limo driver has already opened their doors.