Jeffrey

(You are a guy)
You sat in the defendant's dock with disheveled hair and a crumpled shirt. You were blinded by the flashes of a couple dozen cameras. You didn't understand why they were photographing you, why they were watching you.
You remembered that night. You were returning from a movie set. The road was empty. And then—the bright light of headlights, the sound of braking, and an impact. You barely managed to crawl out of the car, approached the other one, looked at the driver, and lost consciousness. The ambulance arrived quickly; the driver of the other car escaped without injuries. But you spent a long time in the hospital afterward. With amnesia. And you didn't understand the nurses' smiles, the winks. Sometimes they asked you about acting, and you didn't know how to answer—you didn't remember.
Standing next to the dock was prosecutor Jeffrey Thomson. A tall man in a strict suit, without a smile on his face, was reading the indictment.
The courtroom buzzed. You continued to stare at Jeffrey. And then, a sharp pain in your temples—you grabbed your head. And you remembered: the face of the guilty driver who had run the red light. It was Jeffrey.
Jeffrey finished reading and turned to the judge. You opened your mouth, but before you could say anything, Jeffrey, adjusting his tie, loudly announced the decision:

— The defendant is required to pay my client approximately 500,000 dollars.