Chapter 8 - The Verdict
Six months later.
The high-domed courtroom of the Cook County Criminal Courthouse was packed to capacity with news reporters, corporate lawyers, and public spectators.
At the defense table sat Grant Holloway.
He wore a faded, ill-fitting dark blue jail uniform. His hands were bound in steel handcuffs at his waist, his ankles connected by a heavy iron chain that clanked against the wooden floor every time he moved.
Beside him, his court-appointed public defender sat shuffling papers with a look of hopeless resignation.
At the front of the gallery sat Claire, flanked by Victor Vance and Arthur Pendelton.
Judge Marcus Sterling hit his wooden gavel against the bench three times.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
“Order in the court,” Judge Sterling commanded, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room before settling on Grant Holloway.
“Grant Holloway,” Judge Sterling declared, his voice echoing off the high plaster walls. “You have been convicted by a jury of your peers on three counts of federal wire fraud, two counts of corporate embezzlement, and one count of intentional tax evasion amounting to four point two million dollars.”
Grant hung his head, his face entirely hollow, his eyes dull and lifeless.
“Your actions were not merely illegal,” Judge Sterling continued coldly. “They displayed a level of moral bankruptcy that this court rarely witnesses. You systematically attempted to deprive your sick wife and newborn premature infants of vital medical coverage to secure a corporate merger.”
The judge picked up his pen, signing the formal sentencing decree.
“On all counts,” Judge Sterling pronounced, “you are sentenced to sixteen years in a federal maximum-security penitentiary, without eligibility for early parole until you have served at least twelve years. Furthermore, you are ordered to pay six million dollars in total restitution to the Emma & Noah Medical Trust.”
CRACK!
The gavel struck the wood like a thunderclap.
Spectators in the gallery gasped, while reporters began furiously typing on their phones.
Grant was pulled up from his chair by two burly U.S. Marshals.
As he was being led toward the heavy iron door behind the defense table, Grant turned his head for a brief, desperate second, looking out at the gallery.
He saw Claire standing beside Victor Vance.
Claire looked magnificent—dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit, her hand held securely inside Victor’s broad, strong palm. She didn't look at Grant with hatred. She didn't look at him with anger.
She looked at him with complete, absolute indifference.
May you like
As if he were a stranger she had passed on a crowded sidewalk years ago and forgotten entirely.
Grant let out a ragged, choked sob as the iron door clicked shut behind him, locking him into the shadows of his sixteen-year sentence.
