Chapter 8 - The Hammer of Justice
It took the jury less than forty-five minutes to deliberate.
When the bailiff announced that a verdict had been reached, the tension in Courtroom 4B was so thick it was difficult to breathe. Daniel was trembling so violently that the defense attorney had to hold him by the elbow to keep him on his feet. Vivian was clutching a crumpled paper tissue, murmuring incoherent prayers under her breath.
I sat in the front row of the gallery, flanked by Lena on my left and Julian on my right. My hands were folded calmly on my lap.
“Will the defendants please rise and face the jury,” Judge Vance-Montgomery ordered.
Daniel and Vivian stood up clumsily, flanked by four armed bailiffs.
“Madam Foreperson,” the judge said, looking over her reading glasses. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor,” the forewoman replied, standing tall. She unfolded the verdict sheet and cleared her throat.
“In the matter of The State of New York v. Daniel Vance: On Count One, Attempted Murder in the First Degree—we find the defendant Guilty.”
A sharp intake of breath swept through the gallery. Daniel’s knees buckled; the bailiff behind him seized his collar to keep him upright.
“On Count Two, Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon—Guilty. On Count Three, Burglary with a Firearm—Guilty. On Count Four, Grand Larceny in the First Degree—Guilty. On Count Five through Twelve, Wire Fraud and Money Laundering—Guilty on all counts.”
Daniel let out a low, pathetic moan, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks.
The forewoman turned to the second sheet.
“In the matter of The State of New York v. Vivian Vance: On Count One, Accomplice to Attempted Murder—Guilty. On Count Two, Conspiracy to Commit Aggravated Battery—Guilty. On Count Three, Tax Fraud and Charity Embezzlement—Guilty on all counts.”
Vivian shrieked, collapsing entirely to the carpeted floor. “No! No! I am an innocent woman! You can’t do this to me! Daniel, do something!”
The gavel came down with a thunderous CRACK.
“Order! Silence in this court!” Judge Vance-Montgomery slammed the gavel a second time, her eyes burning with righteous fury. “The defendants will be seated or removed immediately!”
Two female bailiffs hauled Vivian back into her chair, holding her down as she hyperventilated.
Judge Vance-Montgomery turned her gaze toward Daniel, her expression devoid of any human mercy.
“Mr. Vance, in my thirty-two years on the bench, I have rarely encountered an individual whose conduct demonstrates such profound, irredeemable depravity. You took a vow to protect and cherish your wife. Instead, driven by pathological greed and petty malice, you subjected her to three years of psychological torment, attempted to steal her family’s life work, and culminated your campaign of terror by scalding her flesh with boiling oil. When that failed to kill her, you broke into her hospital room with a loaded firearm.”
The judge leaned forward, her voice cutting through the silent room like a broadsword.
“You are a predator, Mr. Vance. And this court will ensure that society is permanently protected from you. On the charge of attempted first-degree murder, you are sentenced to the statutory maximum: thirty-five years to life in a maximum-security state penitentiary, without the possibility of parole. On the weapons charges, an additional consecutive term of ten years.”
Daniel looked up, his jaw slack, his soul shattered. Forty-five years. He was thirty-two years old; he would be an old man of seventy-seven before he ever saw a tree outside a barbed-wire fence again.
The judge turned to Vivian.
“Vivian Vance, your complicity in your son’s brutality is an insult to every mother in this nation. You cheered as another woman was mutilated in front of you. On the counts of conspiracy and corporate fraud, you are sentenced to eighteen years at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Furthermore, all personal assets, trusts, and real properties under your name are declared forfeited under state restitution orders to pay for the medical care of Mrs. Sterling.”
CRACK.
“Court is adjourned. Remand the prisoners into custody immediately.”
The gallery erupted into applause. Spectators stood, cheering and embracing one another.
As the bailiffs clamped heavy iron transport chains around Daniel’s waist and ankles, he looked back over his shoulder one final time.
His eyes locked onto mine.
He wanted to see tears. He wanted to see pain. He wanted to see fear.
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Instead, I looked at him with the calm, pitiless detachment of a surgeon inspecting an excised tumor. I didn't hate him anymore. Hate required giving him a place in my mind, and Daniel Vance was no longer a man—he was merely an inmate number in the state registry.
As the steel doors of the holding cell slammed shut behind him, the heavy iron bolt sliding home with a final, echoing thud, the nightmare that had begun three years ago officially ended.
