Chapter 7 - The Final VerdictThe trial didn't last another three days.
Faced with overwhelming forensic evidence, audio recordings, federal tax fraud indictments, and the jaw-dropping testimony of two surviving victims, the jury deliberated for less than forty-five minutes.
When the jury returned, the foreperson delivered the verdict:
Beatrice Vance: Guilty on all counts—Attempted First-Degree Murder, Aggravated Battery with a Deadly Weapon, First-Degree Murder (in the death of Judge Richard Vance), Manslaughter (in the death of the secretary), and Conspiracy.
Mason Vance: Guilty on all counts—Attempted First-Degree Murder, Aggravated Domestic Battery, Kidnapping, Evidence Tampering, and Accessory to Murder.
The judge called both defendants to stand for immediate sentencing.
"In my thirty years on the bench," the judge declared, looking down at Beatrice and Mason with cold disdain, "I have rarely encountered such a profound lack of human empathy. You treated human lives as disposable commodities. You used wealth, prestige, and psychological torture to crush those you were sworn to love."
The judge slammed his gavel down.
"Beatrice Vance, I sentence you to two consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole, to be served at the Dwight Correctional Center."
Beatrice broke down into wild, shrieking hysterics as court bailiffs forcibly dragged her out of the courtroom. She kicked and screamed, her gold jewelry clattering against the concrete floor, looking like a manic lunatic.
"Mason Vance," the judge continued, turning to my former husband. "I sentence you to sixty-five years in maximum-security prison, with no possibility of early release before serving at least eighty-five percent of your sentence."
Mason collapsed onto the floor, sobbing and gasping for air, clutching at the legs of his attorney, who stepped away from him in disgust. As the guards hoisted Mason to his feet, he locked eyes with me one last time.
"Clara! Please!" he sobbed, tears and snot running down his face. "Tell them! Tell them I was under her control! You love me, Clara! Forgive me!"
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I stood up, holding my wooden cane firmly in my right hand. I didn't yell. I didn't glare. I simply looked at him with cool, unyielding indifference.
"I don't hate you, Mason," I said softly, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. "Hate requires feeling something. To me... you're already gone."
