Chapter 8 - THE GAVEL FALLS
The jury deliberated for a little under two hours.
When the twelve jurors filed back into the courtroom, the tension in the room was so thick you could have sliced it with a knife. Preston sat at the defense table, staring blankly at the scarred wooden surface, whispering a silent prayer that salvation would somehow drop from the ceiling.
Salvation didn't come.
The foreperson of the jury stood up, holding a crisp white envelope. The clerk took the paper and handed it to the judge, who adjusted his glasses, scanned the verdict, and looked directly at the defendant.
"On the count of felony domestic assault in the second degree against the defendant Preston Vance, how does the jury find?" the judge asked.
"Guilty, Your Honor," the foreperson read clearly.
"On the count of unlawful restraint and battery, how does the jury find?"
"Guilty, Your Honor."
A sharp gasp escaped Preston’s lips. His head dropped forward until his forehead hit the wooden table with a dull thud. Across the aisle, cousin Brooks—who had taken a plea deal for lesser misdemeanor charges—sat staring at his hands in terror, realizing that his little video had successfully destroyed his cousin's entire life.
Two weeks later, the sentencing hearing took place in the same courtroom.
The judge didn't hold back. In his closing remarks, he excoriated Preston for abusing his position of trust, mocking his victim, and treating domestic violence as a spectator sport.
"Mr. Vance, you had every advantage life could offer—education, career, status, and a partner who built an empire while you coasted on privilege," the judge said sternly, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Instead of gratitude, you showed cruelty. Instead of partnership, you practiced tyranny. The court sentences you to three years in state prison, with no possibility of parole for the first eighteen months."
As the bailiffs stepped forward, snapping the heavy steel cuffs back onto Preston’s wrists, he turned one last time toward the gallery. His eyes found mine, filled with a mixture of terror, regret, and broken pleading.
I didn't flinch. I didn't smile. I simply looked at him the way one looks at a stranger on a subway platform—with complete, absolute indifference.
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The bailiffs led him through the heavy wooden side door, disappearing down the corridor toward holding cells.
Preston Vance was officially gone.
