Chapter 9 - THE TRIAL OF THE CENTURYThree months later, Courtroom 1 of the Federal District Court was packed to the absolute rafters. Media vans crowded the streets outside, broadcasting live feeds across every major news network.
The Black Widow of Wall Street vs. The Conman Husband. That was the headline plastered across every digital billboard in the city.
I sat at the prosecution table, wearing a sharp navy blue suit, reviewing the final financial restitution documents. Beside me sat federal prosecutors and cybercrime investigators who had used my data packets to dismantle an entire international money-laundering ring.
Across the aisle sat Gregory Vance.
He looked a decade older. His hair was thinning, his skin was pale and sallow from months in maximum security, and his designer suit had been replaced by an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely off his frame.
His mother, Patricia, sat behind him, sobbing quietly into a handkerchief, having accepted a plea deal for lesser conspiracy charges in exchange for turning state's evidence against her son—though her testimony did little to save him.
The judge cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he looked down at the towering stack of legal verdicts.
"Gregory Vance," the judge began, his voice echoing solemnly through the silent courtroom. "You have been found guilty on all counts: racketeering, conspiracy to commit grand larceny, felony assault, subornation of perjury, and premeditated administration of controlled substances with intent to incapacitate."
Gregory stared blankly at the polished mahogany table, his hands trembling in his lap.
"The scope of your calculated deceit, your exploitation of marital trust, and your attempt to systematically destroy the life and livelihood of your spouse represent one of the most egregious abuses of the legal and financial system this court has ever witnessed."
The judge paused, raising his gavel.
"I sentence you to twenty-five years in federal prison without the possibility of parole. May God have mercy on your soul."
Bang.
May you like
The gavel struck the sounding block. The sound echoed like a gunshot through the room.
Gregory buried his face in his hands and began to weep—not tears of remorse, but tears of absolute, crushing defeat.
