Chapter 5 - The Arraignment
The county courthouse smelled of damp wool, industrial floor wax, and misery. I arrived wearing a charcoal maternity suit, my hair pulled back into a severe chignon, mother’s cashmere coat draped over my shoulders like armor. Two bodyguards stood discreetly behind me as I took a seat in the second row of the gallery.
Across the aisle sat Eleanor Sterling, Grant’s mother. At sixty-eight, Eleanor was a matriarch who ruled local country club society with an iron fist and an icy tongue. She glared at me, her pearl necklace clutched in one manicured hand, her lips drawn into a thin, hateful slit.
"You ungrateful little creature," Eleanor hissed as she leaned across the divider, completely indifferent to the bailiff standing nearby. "To humiliate my son like this over a lover's quarrel. Margaret would be turning in her grave to see what a spiteful, vindictive woman you’ve become."
"My mother died knowing your son was a parasite, Eleanor," I answered, meeting her glare with unflinching calm. "She only tolerated him because she loved me. But I'm cured of that affliction now. And you might want to look into retaining your own counsel—turns out Grant used your auxiliary accounts to launder half a million dollars of my trust money."
Eleanor's face drained of color, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
Before she could respond, the side door clicked open, and Grant was led into the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit, his ankles shackled. The humiliation on his face was absolute. He had always taken profound pride in his appearance—his hair was always razor-parted, his linen shirts bespoke, his posture imposing. Now, unshaven, stooped, and smelling of jailhouse disinfectant, he looked like a broken caricature of the man I had married.
When his eyes found mine, he mouthed one word: *Please.*
I didn't blink.
The judge, a no-nonsense woman named Alvarez, slammed her gavel down. "Case number 24-CR-8891, State versus Grant Sterling. Charge: Domestic assault with aggravating circumstances, witness tampering, and violation of protection orders."
The prosecutor presented the baby monitor footage. The judge watched the tablet on her bench with an expression that turned from neutral to stone.
"The defense requests bail set at fifty thousand dollars," Grant’s high-priced attorney argued, sweating profusely under his collar. "Mr. Sterling is a prominent pillar of this community, with no prior criminal record—"
"Mr. Sterling struck an eight-months-pregnant woman in her own home, on video, while making verbal threats regarding a firearm upstairs," Judge Alvarez cut in, her voice booming through the chamber. "The defense’s motion for bail is denied. Mr. Sterling will remain remanded in custody until the preliminary evidentiary hearing."
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Grant’s knees visibly buckled. "Elena!" he shouted, straining against the bailiff’s grip as they turned him toward the holding cells. "Elena, don't do this! Think of our baby! We can fix this!"
I stood up, resting my hand gently over my belly, turned my back on him, and walked out of the courtroom into the blinding afternoon sun.
