Chapter 7 - Justice Served Cold
The trial was swift and merciless.
Because of the sheer amount of money they had stolen, and the blatant, documented trail of forgery, the district attorney didn't offer a plea deal.
I sat in the front row of the courtroom with Sarah. She was wearing a beautiful, tailored emerald green dress, her head held high. She held my hand tightly, no longer the terrified, broken woman in the back kitchen. She was a queen watching the execution of traitors.
My mother and sister were brought in wearing standard-issue orange jumpsuits. Without her expensive makeup, salon hair treatments, and silk dresses, my mother looked small, frail, and incredibly old. Prudence looked hollow, her eyes darting around the courtroom in a constant state of panic.
When the judge handed down the sentence, there was no mercy in his voice.
"Gertrude Vance," the judge intoned, looking down from the bench with absolute disgust. "Your actions display a level of familial betrayal and sociopathic greed that is staggering. You stole from your own son, and subjected your daughter-in-law and grandson to horrific abuse to fund a lifestyle you did not earn."
My mother wept, her face buried in her shackled hands.
"I sentence you to five years in federal prison, followed by ten years of supervised probation, and full restitution of the stolen funds."
Prudence fared slightly better, avoiding prison time but receiving a brutal sentence of heavy probation, mandatory community service, and shared liability for the massive financial restitution. She would spend the rest of her life working minimum-wage jobs just to pay back the debt.
After the sentencing, as the bailiffs were preparing to escort them away, my mother looked back at me. Her eyes were red and swollen.
"David," she rasped, a pathetic, broken plea. "Please. I'm your mother."
I looked at her, feeling absolutely nothing. The love I once had for her had been starved to death in a dirty back kitchen, choked out by the sight of my son eating spoiled rice.
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"I have no mother," I said clearly, ensuring she heard every syllable. "My mother died five years ago when I got on a plane."
I turned my back on them and walked out of the courtroom, into the bright, warm sunlight of a new life.
