Chapter 7 - The Testimony
The Federal Courthouse on Pearl Street was swarming with reporters when I arrived four weeks later.
Microphones were thrust into my face, flashbulbs blinded me at the metal detectors, and news crews shouted questions about the "Ashford Downfall." I ignored them all, walking with my head held high, my hand resting comfortably in Evelyn Vance’s grip.
Inside Courtroom 302, the air was heavy with the weight of law and history.
Julian Ashford sat at the defense table in a navy blue prison jumpsuit. His silver hair was unkempt, his face drawn and pale, stripped of the arrogance that had once defined him. His high-priced defense team sat around him like a wall of expensive suits, but their faces were grim.
Across the aisle, at the prosecution table, sat Deputy US Attorney Sarah Mercer, surrounded by stacks of black binders containing the evidence Marcus had died to protect.
I sat in the front row of the gallery.
When Julian Ashford was called to stand, he turned his head and caught my eye. For a brief second, the old, cold contempt flickered in his gaze—the look of a man who believed the world was divided into people who owned towers and people who cleaned them.
I didn't look away. I held his gaze with a quiet, devastating calm until he was forced to turn back to the judge.
The trial lasted three days.
The silver thumb drive provided by Roman was unbreakable. Routing numbers matched hitman wire transfers; internal emails explicitly discussed "handling the Marcus Vance situation"; and offshore accounts in Grand Cayman revealed sixty million dollars laundered through the Ashford Foundation over seven years.
When the jury returned with their verdict, it took less than forty minutes.
“Guilty on count one: Federal Racketeering. Guilty on count two: Money Laundering. Guilty on count three: First-Degree Murder.”
The courtroom erupted into quiet gasps. Julian Ashford’s hands trembled as the judge pronounced his sentence: Life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.
As federal marshals handcuffed Julian and led him toward the side door, I stood up.
Julian passed three feet away from me.
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“Marcus Vance’s daughter is learning to dance,” I said, my voice low, clear, and carrying through the quiet courtroom. “And your name will be forgotten before her first recital.”
Julian flinched as if I had struck him, his head dropping as the heavy steel doors closed behind him forever.
