Chapter 8 - The Trial of Corrine Sterling
Four months later.
The high-stakes criminal trial of The People v. Corrine and Sloan Sterling reached its dramatic climax inside a packed, silent courtroom.
The defense had tried every trick in the book. They had hired three separate psychiatric experts who claimed Corrine was suffering from severe, temporary dementia brought on by late-life metabolic imbalance. They had argued that Sloan was under the hypnotic, coercive control of her mother. They had even tried to claim that I had staged the entire incident using advanced deepfake AI technology to rid myself of my financial obligations to my family.
Marcus had dismantled every single defense argument with surgical, terrifying precision.
I took the witness stand on the fifth day of the trial.
Wearing a tailored navy suit, I sat in the wooden witness box, placing my hand on the Bible and taking the oath with absolute composure.
The lead prosecutor stood up, buttoning his jacket. “Mr. Sterling, please state your name and occupation for the record.”
“Thane Sterling. Chief Executive Officer of Sterling Global Logistics.”
“Mr. Sterling,” the prosecutor asked, stepping toward the jury box. “Can you describe your relationship with the defendants prior to the night of October 12th?”
“I provided them with full financial support,” I said clearly, my voice echoing off the high plaster ceiling. “I paid their housing, their transportation, their medical care, and their personal allowances, totaling approximately five hundred thousand dollars annually.”
“And on the night of October 12th, did you authorize either defendant to enter your home?”
“No,” I said. “My wife and I were asleep—or rather, my wife was resting due to severe pregnancy complications. The defendants used a master key that had been stolen from my estate manager’s office two weeks prior.”
The prosecutor turned toward the defense table, where Corrine sat slumped beside her high-priced trial attorney—paid for by a legal defense charity that had no idea they were walking into a meat grinder.
“Mr. Sterling,” the prosecutor continued, “the defense claims that your mother entered your home out of maternal concern for your financial well-being. How do you respond to that?”
I slowly turned my head, looking directly into the eyes of the twelve jurors sitting in the box.
“Maternal concern,” I said softly, “does not bring an eight-pound sledgehammer into a sleeping woman’s bedroom at two in the morning.”
I reached into my breast pocket, pulled out a small black USB drive, and held it up.
“Maternal concern,” I added, “does not look at a pregnant woman who is weeping on the floor and call her unborn child a bastard while dragging her across the room by her hair.”
The lead defense attorney leapt to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! Argumentative! Prejudicial!”
“Overruled,” Judge Carter snapped instantly. “The witness is answering the question based on direct evidence already admitted into the court.”
The prosecutor nodded. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Corrine’s defense attorney stood up slowly, sweating profusely through his shirt. He looked at me, then looked at the jury box, where three female jurors were staring at Corrine with expressions of open, terrifying hostility.
The defense attorney swallowed hard. He knew that if he cross-examined me, if he pushed me to recount more details, I would simply unleash another wave of cold, undeniable facts that would seal his clients' fate forever.
He slowly sat back down. “No... no cross-examination, Your Honor.”
A hush fell over the room.
The jury deliberated for precisely forty-two minutes—the shortest deliberation time for a major felony trial in Los Angeles County history.
When they filed back into the courtroom, the foreperson—a stern-looking woman in her fifties—held the verdict sheets in her trembling hand.
“On Count One, First-Degree Residential Burglary,” the foreperson read aloud, “we find the defendant, Corrine Sterling, GUILTY.”
Corrine let out a soft, pathetic gasp, collapsing forward onto the table.
“On Count Two, Assault with a Deadly Weapon... GUILTY.” “On Count Three, Attempted Grand Theft... GUILTY.” “On Count Four, Felony Child Endangerment... GUILTY.” “On Count Five, Conspiracy... GUILTY.”
The foreperson turned to the second page. “Regarding the defendant, Sloan Sterling... On all counts... GUILTY.”
Sloan burst into frantic, uncontrollable shrieks, throwing her arms around her attorney’s neck, screaming into his ear as two female bailiffs stepped forward to restrain her. “NO! NO! IT WAS MOM! IT WAS ALL MOM’S IDEA! SHE MADE ME DO IT! SHE MADE ME BRING THE HAMMER!”
Corrine snapped her head toward her daughter, her eyes bulging with sudden, venomous betrayal. “You ungrateful little traitor! You came to me begging for money! You told me to hit her!”
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The two women began screaming at each other right there at the defense table, clawing at each other’s clothes, spitting curses and blame until four bailiffs tackled them both to the carpet, clicking steel handcuffs over their wrists.
I stood up slowly, buttoned my suit jacket, and walked out of the courtroom while the gavel pounded endlessly against the block behind me.
