Chapter 4 - The Legal Strike
A week later, I was discharged from the hospital. I didn't go back to the house. Instead, Marcus set me up in a luxurious, high-security penthouse downtown, complete with private nurses to help change my bandages and manage my physical therapy.
It was time to drop the hammer.
I sat at the massive oak dining table in the penthouse, wearing a silk robe that didn't irritate my healing skin. Across from me sat Detective Reynolds, a federal prosecutor, and Marcus.
"Mrs. Vance," the federal prosecutor began, looking at me with a mixture of pity and deep respect. "The evidence you've provided in the blue folder is astounding. Audio recordings of his abuse, financial ledgers tracking his shell companies, offshore account numbers... it’s a prosecutor's dream. But we need your testimony on the record regarding the day of the attack."
"It's not Mrs. Vance," I corrected him gently. "It's Ms. Sterling. My divorce papers were filed the morning after I was admitted to the hospital."
"Ms. Sterling, then," the prosecutor smiled.
"I'll testify to everything," I said firmly. "But I want something in return."
"Name it."
"I don't just want Ethan to go down for the fraud. I want Margaret held entirely accountable for the physical assault. I want it known that they conspired together. She threw the oil, but the audio recordings from my kitchen prove Ethan told her to do it."
I slid a small USB drive across the table.
"On this drive is the audio from two hours before the incident. You'll hear Ethan explicitly telling his mother that I was becoming suspicious. You'll hear him say, 'We need to teach her a lesson. Break her spirit again before she talks to a lawyer.' Margaret responds by suggesting she make sure I can't leave the house. That constitutes premeditation. It wasn't an angry outburst. It was a calculated attack to keep me trapped."
Detective Reynolds plugged the drive into his laptop and hit play.
Ethan’s cold, cruel voice filled the room. Then Margaret’s venomous laughter.
The men in the room sat in stunned silence. The sheer malice radiating from the recording was suffocating.
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"Ms. Sterling," Reynolds said, looking up from the screen. "With this, they aren't just looking at assault. We are upgrading the charges to Conspiracy to Commit Grievous Bodily Harm and Attempted Murder in the First Degree. They will never see the outside of a prison cell again."
"Good," I said, taking a sip of my tea. "Now, when is the deposition?"
