Chapter 8 - THE TRIAL OF HARRISON VANCE
Three months later.
The Federal Courthouse in downtown Chicago was an imposing structure of grey granite and bulletproof glass. Today, the plaza outside was packed with news vans, satellite trucks, and hundreds of reporters shouting questions into microphones.
THE TRIAL OF THE CENTURY: HARRISON VANCE FACES LIFE IMPRISONMENT.
Inside Courtroom 402, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
Harrison Vance sat at the defense table, wearing an orange orange jumpsuit, his hands shackled to a chain around his waist. He looked gaunt, his silver hair unkempt, his former corporate swagger entirely shattered by ninety days in federal custody. Beside him, three elite defense attorneys shuffled thick stacks of legal motions.
At the prosecution table sat the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois, flanked by federal investigators.
In the front row of the gallery sat Richard Ellsworth, looking formidable in a charcoal three-piece suit. Beside him sat Thomas Sullivan—wearing a sleek silver auditory processor discreetly hidden behind his left ear—alongside Claire and Grace.
"All rise," the bailiff barked as District Judge Eleanor Vance (no relation to the defendant) took the bench.
"Mr. Defense Counsel," Judge Vance said, her voice sharp as steel. "You have filed a motion to suppress the video evidence and lip-reading testimony provided by the state's primary witness. State your grounds."
Vance’s lead attorney stood up, adjusting his glasses. "Your Honor, lip-reading is an unscientific, subjective interpretation. Allowing an eight-year-old child to testify as to the exact contents of a silent corporate conversation is a gross violation of due process. There is no corroborating audio recording!"
"Your Honor," the US Attorney countered, standing up immediately. "The state calls Dr. Elizabeth Sterling, Director of the National Center for Hearing and Communication."
An elderly woman with sharp grey eyes took the witness stand, placing her hand on the Bible to be sworn in.
"Dr. Sterling," the prosecutor asked. "Can an individual trained in lip-reading accurately decode silent speech across a distance?"
"An average person? No," Dr. Sterling testified calmly. "However, after evaluating Grace Sullivan over a three-day forensic trial, her accuracy rate in high-contrast lip decoding exceeds ninety-six percent. Furthermore, her observations in this case led directly to the recovery of the physical evidence."
"What physical evidence?" the defense attorney snapped.
The prosecutor turned to the gallery. "We call Federal Agent Marcus Brody to the stand."
Marcus stepped forward, carrying an evidence bag sealed in heavy plastic. Inside sat a small, dark glass vial recovered from a storm drain three blocks from the Grand Imperial Hotel—a vial that bore Harrison Vance’s partial thumbprint and traces of the identical neuro-paralytic compound found on the shattered plate.
Vance’s defense attorney sat down slowly, his face drained of color.
Judge Vance turned her gaze down to the defense table.
"Motion to suppress is denied," Judge Vance ruled firmly. "The testimony of Grace Sullivan is admitted into evidence."
A collective murmur rippled through the gallery.
Vance looked back toward the gallery, his eyes landing on Grace, who sat quietly between her father and Richard Ellsworth.
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For the first time, Grace didn't hide. She looked Vance straight in the eye, her jaw set, her small hands resting calmly in her lap.
She didn't need to read his lips to know what he was feeling now. The fear written across his face was clear in any language.
