Chapter 4 - THE EMERGENCY ROOM AND THE FALLOUT
The sterile, bright lights of the private wing at St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital buzzed softly above me.
For three agonizing hours, I had been hooked up to fetal monitors, IV drips, and ultrasound machines. Every beep of the heart monitor felt like a countdown. But finally, the attending obstetrician—a distinguished older woman with kind eyes—stepped away from the screen and smiled warmly.
"The contractions are slowing down, and the placenta is secure," the doctor announced, wiping ultrasound gel from my stomach with a warm towel. "The baby is stubborn, just like her mother. She weathered the trauma remarkably well. But you need complete bed rest, absolute zero stress, and hydration for the next week. No more standing, no more cooking, and absolutely no more abusive environments."
My father exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding since we left the house, slumping back into the visitor's chair beside my bed. He reached out and gently squeezed my hand.
"Thank God," he murmured, kissing my knuckles. "I've already arranged for a private detail to monitor your recovery. No one gets within a mile of you without my express authorization."
"What’s happening with David?" I asked, my voice still hoarse from crying.
My father’s expression hardened instantly, a cold, predatory gleam returning to his eyes.
"David is currently sitting in a holding cell at the central precinct," my father said calmly. "When his precinct captain realized who was on the other end of that phone call, he practically tripped over himself trying to process the arrest. Every single charge has been filed without bail: aggravated assault on a pregnant individual, destruction of private property, criminal restraint, and intentional infliction of emotional distress."
"And his law firm?" I asked.
"Oh, Vance & Sterling received an emergency executive notification thirty minutes ago," my father replied with a faint, chilling smile. "The senior partners held an emergency midnight conference call. By 2:00 a.m., David's name was permanently scrubbed from the partnership directory, his office was cleared out by night-shift security, and all of his active corporate accounts were reassigned to other attorneys. As of right now, David Vance is a disgraced, unemployed pariah facing up to fifteen years in federal and state penitentiaries."
Just then, the door to the VIP recovery suite clicked open.
My uncle, Director Vance, stepped inside, holding a glowing tablet in his hand. He looked like a cat that had not only caught the canary, but inherited the entire aviary.
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"You're going to want to see this," my uncle said, holding out the tablet toward my father and me. "Word travels fast in high society, and Sylvia’s pristine suburban life just went up in a glorious, unmitigated firestorm."
On the screen was a live local news feed. The banner flashing across the bottom of the screen read: "PROMINENT LOCAL LAWYER ARRESTED ON CHRISTMAS MORNING AFTER ASSAULTING PREGNANT WIFE; FATHER IDENTIFIED AS CHIEF JUSTICE."
