Chapter 9 - The Final Verdict
The jury deliberated for less than two hours.
When the courtroom doors opened and the twelve jurors marched back to their seats, the atmosphere in the room was electric.
Donald sat three rows behind me in the gallery, his head bowed, clutching a wooden rosary in his hands. He had resigned from his investment firm, sold his sports car, and placed all his personal assets into an untouchable trust fund for Danielle.
The judge looked at the jury foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor,” the foreperson—a sharp-dressed woman in her fifties—announced, standing up with the verdict sheet.
“On Count One: Attempted Premeditated Murder of Madison Vance... how do you find the defendant, Rachel Vance?”
“We find the defendant... GUILTY.”
A loud gasp swept through the gallery.
“On Count Two: Conspiracy to Commit Capital Murder... GUILTY.”
“On Count Three: Poisoning a Food or Drink Supply... GUILTY.”
The foreperson then turned to the charges against Agustin Wickham.
“On Count One: Conspiracy to Commit Capital Murder... GUILTY.”
“On Count Two: Illegal Distribution of Controlled Substances Resulting in Great Bodily Injury... GUILTY.”
Rachel stared straight ahead, her face completely expressionless, as if her mind had finally snapped under the weight of her own defeated malice. Agustin slumped forward, resting his forehead against the defense table, weeping quietly.
Three weeks later, the sentencing hearing took place.
The judge showed zero mercy.
For the attempted murder of Madison Vance, the conspiracy to murder Arthur Vance fourteen years prior, and the illegal distribution of high-grade toxins:
Rachel Vance: Sentenced to Life in Prison without the Possibility of Parole, plus an additional twenty-five years to be served consecutively at the California Institution for Women in Corona.
Agustin Wickham: Sentenced to Thirty-Five Years in State Prison with no chance of early release before serving eighty-five percent of his term.
As the bailiffs attached heavy steel leg irons and waist chains to Rachel, she was led out through the side security door.
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She turned her head one last time to look at her son, Donald.
Donald didn't step forward. He didn't wave. He didn't offer a single tear. He simply looked at her, turned his back, and walked out the front doors of the courthouse into the bright California sun.
