Chapter 8 - The Grand Jury Indictment
The Grand Jury returned a true bill on all counts in less than forty-five minutes.
On Tuesday morning of the following week, Courtroom 4B of the Mecklenburg County Courthouse was packed with local press, creditors, former employees of *Maison Sutton*, and three rows of curious onlookers who had followed the socialite’s fall from grace on local news blogs.
I sat in the second row, right behind the prosecution table. Jovi sat beside me.
She had traded her bulky fiberglass splint for a molded thermoplastic brace that held her fingers in a gentle extension. She wore a simple charcoal wool sweater that covered her bandages, her hair pulled back into a neat braid. Her posture was straight, her shoulders level. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like an auditor reviewing a bad balance sheet.
Declan and Sutton sat at the defense table with four separate defense attorneys.
The contrast between them was devastating.
Sutton had been denied bail at her initial hearing due to flight risk after the prosecutor demonstrated she had transferred sixty-five thousand dollars to Belize. She had spent five nights in the Mecklenburg County Jail. Her expensive blonde hair was greasy, limp against her scalp; she wore an oversized orange institutional jumpsuit that swallowed her thin frame. Without her Chanel jackets, her makeup, and her lighting, she looked like an exhausted, bitter fifty-year-old woman who had run out of lies.
Declan sat three feet away from her, wearing a cheap off-the-rack gray suit. He wouldn't look at his sister. He wouldn't look at us. He stared at his legal pad, his hands trembling as he doodled jagged, meaningless geometric patterns in the margins.
Judge Evelyn Richardson, a no-nonsense veteran judge known for her zero tolerance for procedural games, adjusted her glasses and looked down from the bench.
“We are here for preliminary motions and plea entry in State of North Carolina v. Sutton Cross and Declan Cross,” Judge Richardson announced. “Mr. Sterling, does your client have an entry to make?”
Arthur Sterling, looking ten years older than he had in Jovi’s hospital room, stood up slowly.
“Your Honor,” Sterling said, his voice hoarse. “My client, Sutton Cross, wishes to enter a plea of not guilty to counts one through nine.”
“Noted,” Richardson said. She looked at Declan’s attorney, a public defender who had been appointed after Declan’s private firm dropped him for non-payment of retainers.
“Your Honor,” the public defender said. “My client, Declan Cross, has reached a tentative cooperation framework with the State.”
Sutton’s head snapped around. “What?” she hissed across the table, her voice cutting through the courtroom. “Declan, you coward!”
“Silence at the defense table!” Judge Richardson banged her gavel with a crack that silenced the gallery. “One more outburst from you, Ms. Cross, and I will have you gagged for the remainder of this session.”
Sarah Jenkins stood up for the State.
“Your Honor, before we address bail modifications, the State requests permission to play a ninety-second excerpt of State’s Exhibit Four—the digital video recovered from defendant Declan Cross’s mobile device, recorded at the scene of the assault on October fourteenth.”
Sterling stood up. “Objection! Highly prejudicial at this stage of the proceedings!”
“Overruled,” Richardson snapped. “The defense has challenged the probable cause for the aggravated assault enhancement. I will hear the evidence.”
The lights in the courtroom dimmed. A large flat-screen monitor mounted on the jury box flickered to life.
The video started with a sickening jolt.
The camera was shaking, moving rapidly through the foyer of the Orson estate, past the grand staircase. The audio picked up Jovi’s voice—ragged, high, choking on sheer terror: *“Mom, please! I can’t move my fingers! Somebody help me!”*
Then the camera panned down.
There was Jovi, kneeling on the white marble, her right hand mangled, blood pooling on the polished stone.
And then Declan’s voice came through the high-definition courtroom speakers, crystal clear, dripping with cruel, drunken amusement:
*“Maybe now she’ll stop crying for her mommy. Look at her, Sutton. Look at the little architect. Let’s see you draw a house with those knuckles.”*
Sutton’s voice echoed in the background, laughing: *“She was acting like a spoiled brat. Someone needed to teach her consequences.”*
The video cut off.
The courtroom was dead, suffocatingly quiet.
In the second row, I felt Jovi’s hand slip into mine. Her fingers were trembling, but her grip was tight, anchored.
Judge Richardson took off her glasses. She looked down at Sutton, then at Declan, her face carved from gray granite.
“Bail for defendant Sutton Cross is revoked,” Judge Richardson said, her voice dropping into a register of cold disgust. “She will remain in custody pending trial. As for defendant Declan Cross, bond is set at five hundred thousand dollars, secured. In addition, I am ordering an immediate psychiatric evaluation and an ankle monitoring requirement if bond is posted.”
Declan slumped forward, burying his face in his arms on the defense table.
Two bailiffs stepped behind Sutton, taking her by the upper arms to lead her toward the holding cells.
As she was turned, she looked directly at Jovi. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to spit out one final insult, one last venomous reminder of her supposed superiority.
Jovi didn't look away this time.
She raised her splinted right hand, resting it flat on the courtroom railing, displaying the titanium pins, the surgical scars, the absolute physical proof of Sutton’s ruin.
“See you at sentencing, Aunt Sutton,” Jovi said softly.
May you like
Sutton stumbled as the bailiffs dragged her through the heavy steel door. The latch caught with a final, heavy clack that echoed through the marble hall.
---
