Chapter 5 - THE TRIBUNAL OF THE JUST
Two months later.
The Franklin County Court of Common Pleas was quiet, dark-paneled, and thick with the heavy weight of formal judicial authority. The high ceilings absorbed the soft murmur of court reporters, while sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, illuminating the polished oak tables of the courtroom.
I sat at the prosecution's witness table beside Detective Mercer and the Assistant District Attorney, Sarah Jenkins.
Behind us sat Declan, holding Mave's hand. Our daughter was wearing a dark blue dress, her splint finally removed, replaced by a light compression glove on her right hand. Beside them sat Cashin and his father, who had voluntarily submitted fifty pages of financial records detailing Blythe's corporate fraud.
Across the room sat my sister.
Blythe was dressed in a plain, navy-blue jail jumpsuit. Her hair was unwashed, pulled back into a messy bun, devoid of styling or highlights. The high-end designer makeup was gone, revealing pale, hollow cheeks and dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hands were cuffed at her waist, connected to a leather transport belt.
Sitting beside her was a public defender—the private defense attorneys she had hired had all withdrawn three weeks ago when her bank accounts were frozen and my parents couldn't pay their retainers.
At the front table sat my parents, Cresa and Theren, along with Aunt Vesper. They sat together on a wooden bench, wearing cheap, off-the-rack clothes, looking small, broken, and thoroughly erased.
Judge Evelyn Vance took her seat at the high bench, tapping her wooden gavel twice.
CRACK. CRACK.
"We are here for the sentencing in the matter of the State of Ohio versus Blythe Whitmore," Judge Vance announced, her sharp, intelligent eyes scanning the court records on her screen. "The defendant has entered a plea of guilty to Count One: Felonious Assault, a felony of the second degree; Count Two: Grand Financial Fraud, a felony of the third degree; and Count Three: Child Endangerment."
Judge Vance looked over her glasses at the defense table. "Does the defense wish to make a statement before sentence is passed?"
The public defender stood up, offering a tired, brief nod. "Your Honor, my client recognizes the severity of her actions. She has no prior criminal record. She has expressed deep remorse for the injuries suffered by her niece and asks the court for leniency, requesting a probationary sentence with full financial restitution."
Judge Vance didn't blink. "And does the victim's family wish to address the court?"
Assistant DA Sarah Jenkins stood up. "Yes, Your Honor. The state calls Sloan Whitmore."
I stood up from the prosecution table, smoothing down the front of my black wool suit jacket. I walked slowly to the lectern facing the judge's bench.
I didn't look at my parents. I didn't look at Aunt Vesper. I looked straight at my sister, who lowered her head, unable to meet my eyes.
"Your Honor," I began, my voice clear, steady, and carrying effortlessly across the silent courtroom. "For thirty-four years, Blythe Whitmore operated under the belief that the rules of human decency did not apply to her. She believed that because she was protected by a family that valued appearances over accountability, she could destroy whatever she pleased without consequence."
I reached down and picked up a small digital tablet resting on the lectern, turning the screen toward the judge.
"On the night of May fourteenth," I continued, "my sister stood at the top of a flight of concrete stairs. She looked at my eleven-year-old daughter—a child who loved nothing more than drawing pictures—and called her a rat. She explicitly stated her intent to teach her a lesson. Then she intentionally tripped her down those stairs, shattered a glass dish around her, and laughed while my child lay bleeding."
I paused, letting the absolute horror of that statement settle over the courtroom.
"My sister didn't make a mistake, Your Honor," I stated cleanly. "She committed a calculated act of cruelty. And when the surgeon warned us that my daughter might never draw again, my sister walked into the hospital holding an iced coffee and told us to stop being dramatic."
I set the tablet down and looked directly at Judge Vance.
"Leniency is for people who make mistakes and feel genuine remorse," I concluded. "Blythe Whitmore feels only the misery of being caught. My daughter has spent four months learning how to hold a pencil again. My sister should spend the next few years learning what happens when you destroy a child's world for a joke."
I stepped back from the lectern and returned to my seat beside Declan.
Judge Vance closed her file. She folded her hands over the legal documents, leaning forward over her high wooden bench, her eyes locked onto Blythe with absolute, terrifying severity.
"Miss Whitmore," Judge Vance spoke, her voice like cold iron. "I have sat on this bench for twenty-two years. I have seen many tragic cases of family dysfunction. But rarely have I witnessed an act of such callous, unprovoked cruelty committed by an adult against a helpless child within her own family."
Blythe began to sob, her shoulders shaking violently inside her navy jumpsuit. "Your Honor... please... I'm so sorry..."
"You are sorry because the life of luxury you built on fraud has collapsed around you," Judge Vance cut her off coldly. "You showed zero remorse on the night of the attack. You showed zero concern for your niece in the hospital. You showed only arrogance."
Judge Vance picked up her pen.
"On Count One, Felonious Assault, I sentence you to six years in the Department of Rehabilitation and Correction. On Count Two, Grand Financial Fraud, I sentence you to three years, to run consecutively. On Count Three, Child Endangerment, I sentence you to one year, to run concurrently. Total state prison sentence: Nine years."
CRACK.
The wooden gavel struck the block.
My mother let out a horrific, high-pitched scream from the spectator gallery, collapsing into my father's arms as the bailiffs immediately stepped forward, grabbing Blythe by her arms, and leading her through the side door toward the holding cells.
May you like
Blythe screamed as she was pulled away, her tear-streaked face turning toward us one last time. "Sloan! Please! Sloan!"
I didn't answer. I didn't yell. I simply sat beside my husband, holding my daughter's hand, as the door closed behind my sister forever.
