Chapter 6 - The Arraignment
The Manhattan Criminal Courts building on Centre Street was a grey, imposing fortress of bureaucracy and consequence.
Even through the tinted windows of the Sterling town car, the media circus outside was deafening. Cameras flashed against the wet pavement; reporters with microphones bearing every major news logo shouted over the roar of downtown traffic.
I sat in the back between Walter and Vanessa, dressed in a tailored navy wool maternity dress that reached past my knees, my dark hair pulled back into a sleek, low chignon. I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant now. My body felt heavy, aching with the final days of carrying life, but inside my chest, there was only ice and iron.
"You don't have to go inside, Elena," Walter said softly, his hand resting over mine. "Vanessa can handle the formal victim-impact submission. You don't need to look at them."
"I do," I said.
I looked at my father, seeing the lines around his eyes that had deepened over the last month. "They tore my dress in front of two hundred people because they thought I was weak. They thought because I was quiet, because I was polite, because I didn't brag about you, that I had no spine. I want Margaret Vance to look at me while she stands in iron."
Vanessa nodded once, approving. "The prosecution is presenting the indictment today. Seventeen counts for Margaret, six for Brianna. Julian is outside in the gallery. He was served with the final divorce summons twenty minutes ago on the courthouse steps."
We exited the car under an umbrella held by two private security guards. The cameras erupted.
*"Mrs. Sterling! Elena! Did you know about the fraud beforehand?"*
*"Is it true Julian Vance is cooperating with the feds?"*
*"Elena, what do you say to the claims that this was a setup?"*
I didn't look at them. I didn't slow my pace. Head high, shoulders back, I walked through the security metal detectors and entered Courtroom 302.
The courtroom smelled of floor wax, damp coats, and old cedar.
The gallery was packed with reporters, Marcus Doyle and his legal team, and several high-profile clients Margaret had swindled. Near the aisle in the fifth row sat Julian.
He looked unrecognizable. In four weeks, he had lost at least fifteen pounds. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken and ringed with dark purple bruises of sleeplessness. He was wearing an off-the-rack grey suit that hung loosely from his shoulders.
When I walked down the center aisle, his head snapped toward me. His lips parted, forming the shape of my name, but the two security officers flanking me closed ranks, cutting off his line of sight before he could speak.
The bailiff called the court to order.
"Case number 24-CR-8891, State of New York versus Margaret Vance and Brianna Vance."
The side door opened, and the defendants were led in.
Brianna looked shattered. She was wearing standard prison khakis, her hair unwashed and pulled into a messy knot, her wrists cuffed together with a chain looped around her waist. She kept her head down, staring at the linoleum, trembling continuously.
Margaret, however, was still fighting.
She wore the orange department-of-corrections jumpsuit like she believed it was an ill-fitting designer coat. Her chin was held high, though her skin was sallow, devoid of the expensive foundation and skincare treatments she had relied on for decades.
As she was led toward the defense table, her gaze swept across the gallery and locked onto me.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. Pure, undiluted hatred burned in them.
"Your Honor," the Assistant District Attorney, Sarah Chen, began, her voice crisp and ringing. "The grand jury has returned a true bill on all counts. We are formally adding four counts of wire fraud and two counts of tampering with a witness, based on recorded jailhouse phone calls between Margaret Vance and her son, Julian Vance."
My stomach tightened. I glanced back toward Julian. His face was buried in his palms.
"The defendant," ADA Chen continued, pointing directly at Margaret, "attempted to instruct Julian Vance to destroy company financial records stored at their home residence and liquidate offshore accounts before the forensic audit could conclude. Julian Vance turned those recordings over to the District Attorney's office yesterday evening in exchange for limited immunity regarding the commercial loan filings."
A sharp murmur rippled through the gallery.
Margaret’s head snapped toward Julian like a whip. "You coward!" she screamed, lunging across the wooden defense railing. "You miserable, ungrateful coward! I built everything for you! Everything I did was for this family!"
The court officers seized Margaret immediately, forcing her back into her chair. Brianna burst into loud, choking sobs, curling into a ball beside her public defender.
"Order!" the judge banged his gavel down with three resounding cracks. "One more outburst from the defendant and she will be removed to the holding cells for the remainder of this proceeding!"
Margaret struggled against the officers' grip, her breathing ragged, her eyes wild.
"Julian!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the high plaster ceilings. "She destroyed us! That girl destroyed your life! Look at what she did to your sister!"
Julian didn't look up. He sat in the gallery, his body trembling, his hands pressed so hard against his temples his knuckles were white.
The judge cleared his throat. "Bail remains denied for Margaret Vance. Trial date is set for November 14th. Brianna Vance’s bail application is denied without prejudice pending evaluation of flight risk given the familial connection to the foreign accounts. Defendants are remanded."
The gavel struck again.
As the officers pulled Margaret toward the holding cells, she turned back one last time. Her eyes found mine.
"You're nothing!" Margaret shrieked, spit flying from her lips as she was hauled backward through the steel door. "You’re just a spoiled little girl with a rich daddy! Julian will never love you! He will hate you for the rest of his life!"
The heavy steel door slammed shut. The sound was like a gunshot.
The silence that returned to the courtroom was absolute.
I stood up slowly, supported by Walter’s arm. Vanessa gathered her papers, and together we turned toward the aisle.
Julian was waiting at the end of the pew.
The security guards stepped forward to block him, but I raised my hand. "It’s all right."
Julian stood three feet away. His hands were shaking. He smelled of cheap coffee and cold rain.
"Elena," he croaked, his voice raw. "I gave them the tapes. I gave the DA the recordings. I did what was right."
"You did what kept you out of prison, Julian," I said gently.
He flinched. "I’m trying. I’m trying to be the man you wanted me to be. I signed the divorce papers this morning. I didn't contest anything. Full custody to you. No spousal support. I gave up the apartment. I gave up everything."
"You didn't give it up," I said. "You never owned it."
Julian looked down at my stomach, where our child was resting. Tears spilled over his eyelashes and traced the hollows of his cheeks. "Can I... can I please just see her when she's born? Just for five minutes? Just to know she's healthy?"
I looked at him for a long moment. I remembered the man who had driven four hours in the middle of the night to sit with me in a waiting room when my father was sick. I remembered the man who had laughed with me on rainy mornings in our first small apartment, before Margaret moved back to the city, before the jewelry store began to fail, before the lies became the only language he spoke.
That man was gone. Perhaps he had never truly existed; perhaps he had just been a costume Julian wore until the weight of his mother's expectations crushed it.
"When she is born," I said softly, "Vanessa will send you a photograph. When you have completed two years of steady employment, completed court-ordered therapy, and demonstrated that you can live an independent life without relying on manipulation, you may petition the family court for supervised visitation."
Julian let out a ragged sob. "Two years?"
"Two years, Julian," I said, stepping past him into the marble hallway. "Because it will take at least that long for you to learn how to stand up without someone holding your hand."
May you like
I walked down the broad granite steps into the gray afternoon light, leaving him standing in the empty corridor of the courthouse, alone with the choices he had made.
***
