Chapter 9 - The Arraignment & Dismantling
The Grand Jury of the County of New York did not take forty-eight hours.
They took forty-two minutes.
On Wednesday morning at 11:15 AM, the state supreme court courtroom on the thirteenth floor of 100 Centre Street was packed to legal capacity. The heavy double doors were guarded by four armed state court officers, and the gallery was filled with representatives from fifty international financial journals, legal scholars, and corporate monitors.
Judge Victoria Sterling-Cole—no relation to the defendant, though she made a point of noting it on the record with icy distaste—sat on the elevated bench under the Great Seal of the State of New York.
Vanessa sat at the defense table.
She was no longer wearing the prison jumpsuit; her legal team had obtained permission for her to wear a plain, oversized navy blazer and beige slacks, but the illusion of social status was gone forever. Her wrists were un-cuffed for the hearing, but her ankles were shackled beneath the mahogany skirt of the table, the steel links clinking whenever she shifted her weight.
Her father was not there. Julian was under guard at the psychiatric wing in Bridgeport, facing his own federal indictment for bankruptcy fraud and corporate embezzlement.
Her fixer, Leonard Vance, was not there; he had been arrested at his midtown office at 6:30 that morning by FBI agents executing an arrest warrant for federal extortion.
She sat alone with Richard Blackwell, who looked like a man who would rather be anywhere else on earth.
The District Attorney, ADA Sarah Vance-Lowell (a third cousin of ours who had recused herself from direct prosecution but sat behind the state’s lead trial attorney, Kenneth Hayes), watched as the clerk handed the sealed true bill to the judge.
Judge Cole put on her reading glasses, reviewed the document for two agonizing minutes, and looked down over the bench.
“Indictment Number 4402-B,” Judge Cole announced, her voice echoing in the vaulted ceiling. “The People of the State of New York versus Vanessa Sterling.”
Vanessa pulled her shoulders up, holding her chin high in one last, pathetic display of Park Avenue breeding.
“On count one,” Judge Cole read, “Attempted Murder in the First Degree, a Class A-I felony under Penal Law 125.27, involving the intentional administration of a lethal biological substance to a vulnerable witness... the Grand Jury returns a True Bill.”
Vanessa flinched as if she had been struck across the face.
“On count two, Assault in the Second Degree with a Caustic Substance. True Bill.”
“On count three, Grand Larceny in the First Degree, exceeding one million dollars in historic jewelry and commercial assets. True Bill.”
“On counts four through nine, Wire Fraud, Identity Theft, Forgery, and Witness Tampering in the First Degree. True Bills on all counts.”
Judge Cole set the papers down on her leather blotter. The sound was like a trapdoor dropping open.
“Mr. Blackwell,” the judge said, looking down at the defense attorney. “How does your client plead?”
Blackwell stood up slowly, clearing his throat. His voice was barely audible. “My client enters a plea of not guilty on all counts, Your Honor.”
“The state moves for remand without bail,” ADA Hayes stood up immediately. “The defendant has access to offshore accounts that have not yet been fully repatriated by the federal receiver. She poses an extraordinary flight risk, and as evidenced by the events of yesterday morning involving federal witness intimidation charges filed against her secondary counsel, she represents an ongoing, active danger to the victims and society.”
“Your Honor!” Blackwell pleaded, his arms outspread. “My client is a lifelong resident of Manhattan! Her family has deep roots—”
“Her family is currently in federal bankruptcy proceedings, Mr. Blackwell,” Judge Cole cut him off with the sharpness of a meat cleaver. “Her father is under federal indictment. Her assets are frozen. And the court has reviewed the security footage from the residence on the night of October 14th.”
The judge leaned forward, looking directly down at Vanessa Sterling.
“In my twenty-two years on this bench,” Judge Cole said, her voice dropping into a register of profound disgust, “I have rarely seen a more grotesque display of depraved indifference and calculated malice. A woman who would spray industrial hydrocarbon solvent into the face of an elderly woman holding a flower basket while laughing about her own social supremacy does not belong on the streets of this city.”
Vanessa’s lips parted. “Your Honor, it was an accident—”
“Silence,” Judge Cole commanded.
The entire courtroom held its breath.
“Bail is denied,” the judge ruled, bringing her heavy wooden gavel down with a thunderous *CRACK*. “Defendant is remanded to the custody of the Department of Correction to await trial. Court is adjourned.”
Vanessa screamed.
It was not a refined, high-society gasp. It was a wild, feral, gutter screech that tore out of her chest as two female court officers immediately stepped behind her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and forced her arms behind her back.
The handcuffs clicked shut with brutal finality.
“Adrian!” she shrieked, twisting her head toward the gallery, her eyes wild, her teeth bared like a trapped animal’s. “Adrian, look at what you did to me! You ruined me! You destroyed my family! I hate you! I will kill you! I will kill your mother!”
The gallery erupted into a chaos of shouting reporters, scrambling sketch artists, and flashing camera bulbs through the door windows as the officers hauled her backward through the secure prisoner exit. Her heels scraped against the polished terrazzo floor, her screams echoing down the concrete holding corridor until the heavy steel fire door slammed shut behind her, cutting off her voice forever.
I sat in the front row of the gallery.
I did not stand up. I did not cheer. I did not take a photograph.
I adjusted my necktie, turned to Carter, and stood up calmly.
May you like
“Let’s go home,” I said. “My mother has a garden to replant.”
***
