Chapter 7 - The Trial of the Prescott Dynasty
Four months later, winter had gripped western Pennsylvania in an iron vise of black ice and slate-gray sleet.
The ceremonial courtroom on the fifth floor of the Allegheny County Courthouse was packed to suffocating capacity.
Reporters from every major news network in the country lined the wooden press benches. Prominent members of the Pittsburgh medical community, high-society hostesses, and ordinary citizens sat shoulder-to-shoulder under the high, frescoed ceilings, their breath misting in the cold air that seeped through the tall arched windows.
The trial of Dr. Owen Prescott had become the defining legal spectacle of the year.
At the defense table sat Owen.
In four months, he had aged twenty years. His once-athletic frame had shrunken beneath a cheap, off-the-rack gray suit provided by his public defender. His silver-streaked hair was cut short to institutional regulations, his skin the color of damp parchment, his eyes fixed on the mahogany tabletop, refusing to look at the jury box.
Across the aisle, seated behind the prosecution team, sat Natalie Mercer.
I wore an ivory wool blazer over a dark silk blouse, my posture regal, my hands resting calmly over a leather notebook. Beside me sat Richard Prescott, dressed in his immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his hand resting securely over mine.
And in the front row of the gallery, held securely in the arms of a trusted pediatric nurse, sat Liam.
He was four months old now.
He had graduated from the Level IV NICU six weeks earlier, weighing a robust ten pounds, two ounces. His cheeks were round, pink, and healthy, his large dark eyes watching the courtroom ceiling fans with calm, infant curiosity. The chemical poison that had nearly stolen his life had been flushed from his system, leaving behind a baby who smiled at the sound of his mother’s voice.
"The Commonwealth calls Richard Prescott," the prosecutor announced.
The gallery fell into a hush so profound you could hear the radiators clanking against the oak wainscoting.
Richard stood up slowly.
He didn't use his cane today. He walked with a steady, rhythmic stride toward the witness box, took the oath without a tremor in his voice, and sat down before Judge Evelyn Vance-Holt.
The prosecutor stepped to the podium.
"Mr. Prescott," the prosecutor began, "can you state your relationship to the defendant?"
Richard turned his head.
For five long seconds, his cold gray eyes locked onto Owen.
Owen shrank down into his chair, pulling his chin into his collar, unable to meet his father’s gaze.
"I am the biological father of Owen Prescott," Richard said, his voice resonant, cutting through the vaulted room like a church bell. "And for thirty-six years, I believed I had raised a healer. A man dedicated to the sacred preservation of human life."
Richard turned back to the jury box, his voice dropping into a register of quiet, devastating sorrow.
"I was wrong."
"Mr. Prescott," the prosecutor continued, "directing your attention to the night of October 14th. When you received the audio recording from your daughter-in-law, what was your immediate assessment?"
"I heard a licensed physician laughing while his pregnant wife was hemorrhaging on the floor," Richard testified, his words landing like heavy stones into the silence. "I heard a man who had betrayed his medical oath, his marriage vows, and his humanity. I knew in that instant that if I did not act immediately, my daughter-in-law and my grandchild would be murdered under the color of medical authority."
A collective murmur rippled through the gallery.
In the second row, several physicians who had worked alongside Owen for a decade nodded in grim, solemn agreement.
"And what actions did you take regarding Dr. Prescott's standing in your family?" the prosecutor asked.
Richard lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping over the courtroom.
"I removed him from my life," Richard said with absolute, unyielding finality. "I stripped him of his inheritance. I turned over every piece of forensic evidence my private investigators recovered to the Department of Justice. And I stand here today as the Chairman of Hawthorne Health Network to ask this court for the maximum penalty permissible under the law."
Richard turned his head once more, looking directly at the defense table.
"A man who uses his medical training to poison his own child in the dark does not deserve mercy," Richard whispered. "He deserves justice."
When the prosecution rested, Harold Finch’s replacement, a weary public defender named Miller, declined to cross-examine. There were no questions left to ask. The forensic records, the Signal chat logs, the recovered vials, and Vanessa Cole’s two-day testimony had constructed an impenetrable iron wall around Owen Prescott.
The jury deliberated for less than fifty minutes.
When the foreperson stood up to read the verdict, the tension in the room was so thick you could taste the copper on your tongue.
Guilty on Count One: Attempted First-Degree Murder of Natalie Mercer. Guilty on Count Two: Attempted Premeditated Feticide. Guilty on Count Three: Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon. Guilty on Count Four: Healthcare Fraud and Unlawful Distribution of Controlled Substances.
Owen let out a strangled, pathetic gasp, his forehead striking the defense table as his hands curled into trembling claws.
Judge Vance-Holt did not hesitate.
She adjusted her spectacles, looked down at the shivering, broken man in gray, and delivered the sentence that sealed his fate forever:
"Owen Prescott, you have disgraced the medical profession, you have disgraced your family, and you have committed an act of monstrous, calculated depravity against an innocent mother and child. You are hereby sentenced to fifty-five years at the State Correctional Institution at Rockview, without the possibility of parole. You will serve every single day of that term in maximum security."
CRACK.
The wooden gavel struck the sound block like an artillery shell.
"Take him down," the judge commanded.
Two armed state marshals hoisted Owen to his feet by his armpits.
As they dragged him toward the heavy steel holding door, Owen thrashed wildly, his eyes locking onto me for the last time.
"Natalie!" Owen shrieked, his voice cracking into a high, hysterical sob that echoed down the marble corridors. "Natalie, please! Look at me! Tell them I’m his father! Natalie!"
I didn't flinch. I didn't look down.
I slowly stood up from the bench, reached into the nurse's arms, and lifted Liam against my chest.
May you like
I turned my back on Owen Prescott, wrapped my arms securely around my living, breathing son, and walked down the center aisle into the bright, clean winter sunlight streaming through the courthouse doors.
Behind me, the iron door of the holding cell slammed shut with a final, echoing CLANG.
