Chapter 6 - The Trial of the Fallen Syndicate
The federal courthouse in downtown Chicago sat beneath a pale, winter-blue sky that made the concrete towers look like carved bone.
At 8:30 AM on Monday morning, the public gallery of Courtroom 101 was packed to capacity with maritime labor leaders, investigative journalists from the Chicago Tribune, and dozens of longshoremen who had gathered to witness the final legal battle for the South Side shipping terminals.
Sitting at the primary petitioner's table was Travis Ashford—transferred from Cook County jail under armed guard—and Senator Richard Vance, sitting two rows behind him with his head bowed, his hands shaking as he clutched a leather portfolio containing his disgraced resignation letter.
The heavy double oak doors of the courtroom swung open with a smooth, authoritative glide.
Every head in the room turned in unison.
Stepping through the threshold was Julian Vance.
He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal three-piece suit of English wool, his overcoat unbuttoned, his dark hair brushed back from his broad forehead, his face carved from cold, unyielding granite.
Walking on his right, dressed in an elegant, high-collared dark emerald wool dress that accentuated her tall, sovereign frame, was me.
And walking between us, holding our hands with absolute, fearless trust, were Josie and Willa, dressed in matching navy school blazers, carrying small leather document cases under their arms.
Travis Ashford’s breath hitched in his throat. He half-rose from his defense table, his mouth opening in an involuntary, terrified gasp as he saw his ex-wife walking down the center aisle beside the sovereign lord of the Chicago waterfront.
I did not look at him.
I did not look at Senator Vance.
I walked past the first row of pews with the slow, measured, majestic cadence of a woman who had walked through the fire and emerged as pure, tempered iron.
Chief Judge Evelyn Harrison entered from the chambers, her black silk robes rustling, her seventy-two-year-old face an unreadable mask of judicial severity as she struck her gavel against the sounding block with a single, concussive CLACK.
"Court is in session," Judge Harrison announced, her deep, authoritative voice cutting through the murmur of the gallery like a diamond scribe on glass.
"In the matter of The United States v. Travis Ashford & Richard Vance."
Judge Harrison lowered her reading glasses, looking down from the elevated bench directly onto Travis Ashford.
"Mr. Ashford, your counsel has submitted four emergency motions alleging custodial unfitness, stalking, and harassment. The court has reviewed the supplementary exhibits submitted by the United States Attorney, including the physical recordings of the supermarket assault and the financial tracing of your corporate embezzlement."
She lifted the heavy wooden gavel four inches above the block.
"On the charges of aggravated domestic battery, violation of a restraining order, and interstate RICO conspiracy..."
CRACK.
The gavel struck the block with the concussive finality of an artillery shell.
"You, Travis Ashford, are sentenced to twenty-five years at the United States Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois. No possibility of parole."
CRACK.
"And to Richard Vance: Twenty years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Pekin for bribery and public corruption."
CRACK.
The room erupted into an ocean of shouting reporters, camera flashes, and the desperate, animal weeping of Travis Ashford as two armed marshals hauled him out of his chair by his chained elbows.
I looked down at my daughters.
Josie and Willa stood tall, their hands warm in mine, their eyes bright and fearless.
May you like
"Come, girls," I said softly, turning my back on the courtroom.
"Your father is waiting at the car."
