Chapter 7 - THE DAY OF JUDGMENTSix months later.
The high-profile trial of Genevieve Blackwood, Richard Vance, and Eleanor Vance reached its dramatic conclusion at the Federal District Courthouse.
The courtroom was packed to maximum capacity. Journalists, legal analysts, and curious onlookers squeezed into the benches to witness the final fall of the elite conspirators.
Genevieve sat at the defense table, looking frail, grey-haired, and broken. The months in pre-trial detention had stripped away every shred of her former glamour. Next to her sat Richard and Eleanor Vance, both staring blankly at the table in quiet despair.
The judge slammed his gavel down, bringing the courtroom to instant order.
"Will the defendants please stand," the judge commanded.
Genevieve struggled to stand up, her hands trembling violently.
"Genevieve Blackwood," the judge read from the verdict sheets, "on the count of attempted first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and corporate fraud... this court finds you GUILTY on all counts."
Genevieve gasped, grabbing the edge of the table to keep from collapsing.
"Richard Vance... GUILTY on all counts." "Eleanor Vance... GUILTY on all counts."
The judge looked down at the defendants with stern severity.
"The coldness and cruelty displayed in this conspiracy—endangering the life of an innocent mother and her unborn infant purely out of greed and social vanity—is abhorrent. Genevieve Blackwood, you are hereby sentenced to 28 years in federal prison without the possibility of parole."
"No! Please! Julian!" Genevieve shrieked, turning toward the gallery where Julian and I sat in the front row. "Julian, tell them! I’m your mother! You can't let them do this to me!"
Julian didn't flinch. He sat tall, holding my hand firmly, his face an unreadable wall of stone.
"Richard Vance, you are sentenced to 22 years," the judge continued smoothly over her screams. "Eleanor Vance, you are sentenced to 15 years."
As the bailiffs stepped forward to lock heavy iron shackles around Genevieve’s ankles and wrists, she turned her tear-stained face toward me. For the first time, her arrogance was entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, pitiful plea for mercy.
"Forgive me..." she sobbed toward me. "Please... talk to him... forgive me..."
I looked at the woman who had pushed me down a marble staircase, who had listened to my groans of pain with a smile, who had told me to choose between my life and my child’s.
I leaned forward slightly, looking her dead in the eye, and uttered the exact words she had spat at me on the cold floor six months ago:
May you like
"Don't bother surviving."
Genevieve froze, a look of utter horror washing over her before she was dragged out of the courtroom, her iron shackles rattling loudly against the floor as the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her forever.
