Chapter 7 - Criminal Indictments
The trial of Dominic Vance was not the prolonged, theatrical spectacle he had hoped for.
Without access to Sinclair Medical’s corporate coffers, his high-priced legal team abandoned him. His defense was left to a harried, overworked public defender who had three hundred other felony files sitting on his desk.
In the wood-paneled courtroom of the Dirksen Federal Building, Judge Harold Vance—an incorruptible jurist with a reputation for merciless sentencing in white-collar cases—sat beneath the Great Seal of the United States.
Dominic sat at the defense table, wearing an ill-fitting orange corrections jumpsuit, his hands shackled to a chain around his waist. His once-coiffed hair was unwashed, straggling across his forehead. He had lost twenty pounds in the four months he had spent in pre-trial detention.
I sat in the front row of the gallery.
Beside me sat Leo, and in my arms sat Grace. She was nine months old now, laughing softly as she played with the gold button on my coat, completely oblivious to the man in chains who had once claimed she was unworthy of his name.
"Mr. Vance," Judge Vance’s voice cut through the courtroom like thunder. "The evidence presented by the government is overwhelming. You systematically looted fourteen million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from research accounts specifically designated for pediatric neuroblastoma clinical trials. You did so to finance private jets, luxury real estate, and exorbitant personal gifts to maintain a fraudulent public persona."
"Your Honor," Dominic’s public defender stammered, rising to his feet. "My client was under severe personal and corporate stress. He was manipulated by his former assistant, Ms. Montgomery—"
"Save it, counsel," the judge interrupted, his gavel tapping the bench once with terrifying finality. "Your client is a grown man who ran an international medical corporation. His actions were not the result of manipulation; they were the result of unvarnished, predatory arrogance."
The judge turned his piercing gaze down toward Dominic.
"Mr. Vance, do you have anything to say before sentence is pronounced?"
Dominic stood up slowly, the chains around his waist rattling with every movement. He turned his head, his hollow, sunken eyes finding mine in the gallery.
"Clara..." Dominic croaked, his voice cracking with tears. "Clara, please tell them. Tell them how hard I worked. Tell them I was just trying to make the company bigger for us... for Grace! I did it for our family!"
The audacity of the lie was so breathtaking that several people in the press row gasped in disbelief.
I didn't answer him. I simply lifted Grace slightly higher, letting her bright, innocent slate-gray eyes look down at the broken man in chains.
"Mr. Vance," Judge Vance said, his voice dropping into the solemn register reserved for severe judgment. "You have displayed zero remorse. You have attempted to weaponize your family, your former spouse, and an innocent child to evade accountability for your crimes."
The judge raised his gavel.
"On Count One, Wire Fraud: sixty months. On Count Two, Embezzlement of Public Research Grants: one hundred and twenty months. On Count Three, Securities Manipulation: sixty months. Sentences to run consecutively. You are hereby remanded to the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for a term of twenty years, without the possibility of federal parole."
*Crack!*
The gavel struck the sound block.
Dominic let out a strange, choked gasp, as if the air had been violently sucked from his lungs. His knees gave out entirely, and the two federal marshals had to physically lift him by his armpits to keep him from collapsing onto the defense table.
"Twenty years?" Dominic screamed, his voice turning into an animal shriek of terror as they began dragging him toward the holding cell door. "No! That's half my life! Clara! Help me! Call the governor! Clara, you have the money! Pay the restitution! Clara!"
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind him, cutting off his screams.
The courtroom fell silent, save for the clicking of the court reporter’s machine and the soft, cheerful gurgle of my daughter resting against my collarbone.
Leo leaned over, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. "It’s over, Clara."
I looked down at Grace. She smiled up at me, reaching out her tiny fingers to pat my cheek.
May you like
"No, Leo," I murmured, a profound sense of lightness lifting the weight that had pressed down on my chest for six long years. "It’s just beginning."
***
