Chapter 7 - THE LEGAL SLAUGHTER
The trial of the State vs. Dominic Vance did not happen. There was no grand courtroom drama, no dramatic cross-examinations, no opportunity for Dominic to charm a jury. The evidence was simply too overwhelming, a titanium trap of his own making.
Four months after the wedding incident, Dominic sat in a sterile, windowless plea negotiation room in the district courthouse. He had aged ten years. The county jail haircut and the baggy, faded orange jumpsuit had stripped away every ounce of his polished, wealthy veneer. He looked pale, gaunt, and terrified. His hands, cuffed to the steel table, trembled slightly.
I sat across from him, flanked by Fiona and a federal prosecutor who was handling the fraud charges. I wore a sharp navy suit, my posture perfect, feeling absolutely nothing but a cold, clinical detachment.
His expensive defense attorney, a man who charged a thousand dollars an hour to normally make things disappear, cleared his throat. "The State’s offer of twenty-five years is unacceptable," the lawyer said, though his heart clearly wasn't in it. "My client is willing to plead guilty to the financial charges and reckless endangerment, provided the attempted manslaughter charges are dropped. Ten years, eligible for parole in five."
Fiona laughed. It was a short, sharp sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
"We aren't here to negotiate, counselor," Fiona said, leaning forward, resting her forearms on the table. "Your client is currently facing two counts of attempted manslaughter, grand larceny, wire fraud, and perjury for lying on his initial custody affidavit. The audio recording proves premeditation and malicious intent. The Feds have a paper trail of the stolen trust funds that a first-year accounting student could follow. If we go to trial, we will play that tape for a jury of twelve people—most of whom will be parents. They won't just convict him; they’ll ask the judge to throw him in a dark hole and lose the key. He will get forty years, minimum."
Dominic swallowed hard, his eyes darting to me. "Vivienne... please."
It was the exact tone he had used in the ballroom. The manipulator, trying to find a weak spot.
"Don't speak to her," Fiona snapped.
"Let him speak," I said quietly, holding up a hand. I looked directly into Dominic’s eyes.
"Vivienne, I was desperate," Dominic whispered, leaning over the table as far as the cuffs would allow. "The company was going under. Everything I built was collapsing. I wasn't thinking straight. I didn't want to hurt you. I just... I needed a way out, and I panicked. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have your money back. The Whitmores destroyed my firm anyway. Haven't I lost enough? Think of Sophia. Do you want her father to rot in prison?"
I stared at him. I remembered the biting cold of the snow against my bare feet. I remembered the terrifying silence of the mountain. I remembered the blue tint of my baby's lips.
"You are not her father," I said, my voice steady, devoid of any emotion. "A father protects his child. You looked at a six-day-old infant and saw a disposable prop in your cover story. You didn't panic, Dominic. Panicking is forgetting to grab your keys. Panicking is not locking a door, turning your back on your crying baby, and going to drink champagne with another woman. You calculated."
I leaned in closer, ensuring he saw the absolute zero in my eyes.
"I am not making a deal to save you," I continued. "I am making a deal because I refuse to waste another month of my life sitting in a courtroom looking at you. Twenty-five years, Dominic. No parole for fifteen. You plead guilty to every single charge. You surrender all remaining parental rights. You admit, on the record, exactly what you did."
"I can't survive in prison for twenty-five years, Vivienne," he choked out, actual tears spilling down his cheeks now. Not tears of remorse, but tears of self-pity.
"You'll be all right, Dominic," I said, echoing the last words he ever spoke to me as a free man. "You always survive."
His lawyer leaned in, whispering fiercely into Dominic’s ear. The reality of his situation finally crushed whatever delusion of escape he still harbored. With a shaking hand, he picked up the pen and signed the plea agreement.
An hour later, in open court, Dominic Vance stood before Judge Abernathy. The gallery was packed with reporters. Beatrice Vance was noticeably absent; rumor had it she had fled to a condo in Florida, deeply in debt from legal fees and completely ostracized from her social circles.
"How do you plead to the charges of attempted manslaughter, wire fraud, and child endangerment?" the judge asked, his voice booming.
Dominic’s head hung low. "Guilty, your honor."
The gavel fell. It was the loudest, most definitive sound I had ever heard. It was the sound of a cage closing. Not on me, but on the monster who had tried to build one for me in the snow.
Fiona squeezed my hand as we walked out of the courthouse and into the bright, blinding sunshine of the city. The reporters flashed their cameras, shouting questions, but I didn't stop to answer them. The story was over. The truth was on the record forever.
"So," Fiona said as we reached her car. "What does the unstoppable Vivienne do now?"
May you like
I looked up at the blue sky. The air was warm. Winter was finally, completely over.
"I'm going to go pick up my daughter," I smiled. "And then, I think I'm going to open my own crisis management firm. It seems I have a knack for it."
