Chapter 8 - Stripped of Everything
Six months later.
The Bellmont Federal Courthouse was packed to capacity for the final sentencing and asset disposition hearing of State v. Vanessa Stubbs.
I sat in the front row of the gallery beside my father. I was wearing an elegant, navy-blue tailored suit, my hair styled, holding a leather folder containing the foundation documents for the new Aurelia Training Center.
At the defense table sat Vanessa.
She wore a drab gray county jumpsuit. Her hair was stringy, unstyled, and her wrists were chained tightly to a heavy leather waist belt. The seventy-thousand-dollar gowns, the diamond necklaces, and the arrogant, sneering smile were completely gone. She looked hollow, defeated, and thirty years older.
Judge Rebecca Vance slammed her heavy wooden gavel down on the bench.
"On counts one through fourteen: Grand Larceny, Wire Fraud, and Extortion," Judge Vance read from the thick sentencing folder, "the defendant is sentenced to twenty-four years in federal custody without the possibility of early parole."
A loud murmur swept through the courtroom gallery.
"Furthermore," Judge Vance continued, her voice cold and unyielding, "under the RICO statutes, 100% of the defendant's personal assets—including real estate properties, offshore accounts, vehicles, and luxury goods—are hereby seized and transferred to the Amara Vale Foundation for Abandoned Children as full criminal restitution."
Vanessa didn't even scream this time. She simply bowed her head, tears dripping silently onto the scarred surface of the defense table.
Her court-appointed attorney leaned over, whispered a few words to her, and stood up as the marshals stepped forward to lead her away.
As she passed the front row, Vanessa stopped for a brief second, looking at me through her swollen, red-rimmed eyes.
"Maya..." she whispered, her voice raspy and broken. "Please... ask your father to send me a little money for the prison commissary... I have nothing... I can't even buy soap..."
I looked at the woman who had once torn my blouse and poured wine over my head while two hundred wealthy guests laughed.
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"Trash belongs in the kitchen, Vanessa," I said softly, repeating the exact words she had spat at me six months ago. "And criminals belong in prison."
The marshals yanked her forward, leading her through the heavy iron doors into the dark corridor beyond.
