Chapter 5 - The Courtroom AmbushThree days later, the preliminary bail hearing for Vivian Prescott was held at the county courthouse.

Because of my medical condition, I was permitted to attend via a high-definition live video link from my hospital room, projected onto a massive screen inside the courtroom.

Vivian sat at the defense table wrapped in a designer coat, surrounded by a team of high-priced defense attorneys led by Julian Vance—Marcus’s estranged, hyper-competent brother. Adrian sat behind her in the gallery, out on temporary bond, looking disheveled and frantic.

"Your Honor," Julian Vance argued smoothly before the judge, "the defense moves to dismiss all charges against Mrs. Prescott and suppress the ICU video evidence. Mrs. Hannah Prescott suffered catastrophic head trauma during her fall. Her allegations are the result of post-traumatic psychosis, and the illegally hidden recording device in her cast violates my client's privacy rights."

The prosecutor attempted to object, but Julian pressed on aggressively.

"Furthermore, Mrs. Prescott’s family estate is prepared to post a $5 million cash bond. She poses zero flight risk and requires specialized medical care at home."

The judge looked over his glasses, clearly weighing the legal technicalities. "The defense raises a valid point regarding the expectation of privacy in a private hospital room—"

"If I may speak, Your Honor," my voice resonated through the courtroom's surround-sound speakers.

The entire courtroom fell dead silent. The camera zoomed in on my face—bruised, pale, but radiant with absolute authority.

"Mrs. Prescott, your council should address the court," the judge cautioned gently.

"Your Honor," I said firmly, "the defense claims the recording was an invasion of privacy. But under State Penal Code Section 633.5, secret recordings are entirely admissible if the recording party has reasonable belief that an imminent felony involving violence—such as premeditated murder—is about to occur."

Julian Vance’s mouth twitched.

"And as for flight risk," I continued, winking slightly into the camera, "I invite the court to look at the screen currently updating on the prosecution's desk."

Prosecutor Miller looked down at his tablet, his eyes widening. He immediately stood up.

"Your Honor! FinCEN and the State Police have just executed a search warrant on Prescott Manor. They have seized four fraudulent passports under Vivian Prescott’s maiden name, along with $2 million in bearer bonds hidden in a wall safe behind a portrait in the master bedroom."

Vivian’s face drained of color. She whirled around to glare at Adrian, who was shrinking back in his seat.

"Additionally," Prosecutor Miller announced, "we have just confirmed that fifteen minutes after Hannah Prescott was admitted to the ICU, a wire transfer request for $10 million was initiated from Vivian Prescott’s personal account to an unlisted airstrip in Nassau!"

The judge's gavel came down with a thunderous crack.

"Bail is DENIED. Mrs. Prescott will remain in custody pending trial."

As the bailiffs clamped heavy iron shackles around Vivian’s wrists, she snapped. She leaped toward the video camera, screaming hysterically:

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Arthur Sterling tapped his leather-wrapped fingers against the steering...

The sound hung in the air, rhythmic and deliberate—tap, tap, tap—reverbe...

The wind on the balcony was sharp, carrying the bitter, fish-heavy tang...

"You miserable little parasite! You think you've won? You're nothing! You'll rot in that bed while my family burns your world to the ground!"

I looked at her coldly through the screen. "Your family is already ash, Vivian. You just haven't smelled the smoke yet."