Chapter 7 - The Reckoning in Court
Three months later, the courtroom of the Cook County Criminal Court Building was packed to capacity.
Flashbulbs popped outside on the stone steps as high-priced defense attorneys and federal prosecutors jostled for position. Inside, sitting at the defense table in a standard orange jumpsuit, Rebecca Avery looked a shadow of her former self. Her blonde hair was unstyled, her face devoid of makeup, her manicured nails bitten down to the quick.
The trial had been swift and devastating. The digital trail she had left behind—hidden offshore accounts, internal emails ordering the sealing of the warehouse ventilation shafts, and wire transfers bribing city inspectors—was airtight.
Judge Robert Vance (no relation to Abigail) leaned over the mahogany bench, his expression stern and unyielding.
“Rebecca Avery,” the judge read aloud from the sentencing document. “You have been found guilty on all counts of corporate fraud, obstruction of justice, and manslaughter in the second degree. For crimes committed out of greed and callous disregard for human life, this court sentences you to twenty-five years in federal prison without the possibility of parole.”
The gavel came down with a sharp, final crack that echoed through the courtroom like a gunshot.
Rebecca didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply stared straight ahead at the walnut paneling, her expression frozen in bitter disbelief as two bailiffs stepped forward, placed cold steel cuffs around her wrists, and led her away through the side door.
In the back row of the gallery, Abigail Vance sat quietly alongside Maxwell Avery.
When the gavel fell, neither of them cheered. There was no triumph in the destruction of a human soul, even one as deeply corrupted as Rebecca’s. There was only closure.
Abigail closed her eyes for a brief second, took a slow, deep breath, and let it out.
May you like
“It’s over,” Maxwell whispered gently, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder.
“No, Mr. Avery,” Abigail corrected softly, opening her eyes and looking toward the sunlight streaming through the tall stained-glass windows of the courtroom. “It’s not over. It’s just beginning.”
