Chapter 14 - The Judge’s Gavel And The Iron Door
Six months later.
The Federal District Court of Massachusetts was packed to the gallery.
Reporters sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the hardwood benches.
Cameras flashed every time the mahogany doors swung open.
I sat at the prosecution’s table.
I wore a tailored navy suit.
My dark hair was pulled back in a neat twist.
My skin had regained its color.
The thallium was gone from my system, cleared after months of aggressive
chelation therapy.
My hands were steady.
Beside me sat Tobias.
He wore a dark gray suit.
He sat upright, his broad shoulders squared against the bench.
His eyes were calm and clear.
Across the courtroom sat Garrett Vance.
He was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit.
His wrists and ankles were chained to the floor.
His right arm hung limp in an orthopedic brace from the sniper round.
His face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken.
His expensive hair had been shaved to the scalp.
He didn't look at the cameras.
He didn't look at the jury.
He stared down at the polished wood table like a corpse.
Beside him sat Detective Marcus Vance.
Also in orange.
Also in chains.
The presiding judge, an iron-haired woman named Evelyn Stone, adjusted her
spectacles.
She tapped her gavel three times.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The courtroom fell into dead silence.
“In the matter of the United States versus Garrett Vance,” Judge Stone began.
Her voice cut through the room like a scalpel.
“On twenty-four counts of racketeering, wire fraud, and grand larceny.”
“Guilty.”
“On two counts of attempted first-degree murder by poisoning.”
“Guilty.”
“On two counts of attempted murder by drowning.”
“Guilty.”
“On one count of corporate espionage leading to the deaths of Thomas and Eleanor
Mercer.”
“Guilty.”
A collective intake of breath swept through the benches.
Garrett didn't move.
A single tear rolled down his nose, dropping onto his orange sleeve.
Judge Stone looked down from the bench.
Her eyes bored into Garrett with cold fury.
“Mr. Vance,” the judge said.
“In forty years on this bench, I have rarely encountered a human being with such
complete absence of soul.”
“You used marriage as an execution chamber.”
“You used love as a delivery system for rat poison.”
“You exploited the supposed helplessness of a disabled young man while planning
his slaughter.”
“You deserve neither mercy nor the light of day.”
Judge Stone raised her heavy wooden gavel.
“I sentence you to three consecutive life terms at ADX Florence Federal Supermax
without the possibility of parole.”
“You will spend twenty-three hours a day in an eight-by-ten concrete cell.”
“You will never see the ocean again.”
“You will never touch a dollar of Mercer money again.”
“May God have mercy on whatever remains of your conscience.”
The gavel slammed down with finality.
CRACK.
U.S. Marshals seized Garrett by the elbows.
They hauled him to his feet.
As they dragged him toward the iron holding cell door, Garrett looked back.
His eyes caught mine across the crowded courtroom.
There was desperation in his gaze.
A pathetic, begging plea for some sign of the wife who used to stroke his hair.
I looked directly into his eyes.
I didn't show anger.
I didn't show sorrow.
I showed nothing at all.
To me, Garrett Vance was already dead.
He had died in forty feet of river water six months ago.
The iron door clanged shut behind him.
The heavy magnetic locks engaged with a deep, final thunk.
Tobias reached over and took my hand.
His grip was warm, strong, and real.
“It’s over, Rosalind,” he whispered.
“It’s finally over.”
We walked out of the federal courthouse onto the grand granite steps.
The autumn sun was shining bright across Boston Harbor.
Microphones were thrust into our faces.
Reporters shouted questions from every direction:
“Mrs. Mercer! What happens to the shipyards now?”
“Tobias! Are you taking a seat on the board?”
I raised my hand.
The press corps fell silent.
“Mercer Shipyards has survived forty years of piracy,” I said clearly.
My voice carried across the plaza.
“We survived the fire.”
“We survived the water.”
“Tomorrow morning, the dry dock gates open again.”
“We are building the future my parents dreamed of.”
“And this time, no ghost will ever take it from us.”
Tobias and I walked down the steps to our waiting car.
We didn't go to the boardroom.
We didn't go to the penthouse.
We drove south along the coastal road toward the private recovery sanitarium in
May you like
Vermont.
To the woman who had helped us put the final nails in Garrett’s coffin.
