Chapter 8 - The Trial of Wall Street
Four months later.
The Southern District Federal Courthouse in Lower Manhattan was surrounded by hundreds of reporters, news vans, and satellite trucks. The story had captivated the entire nation—the downfall of Wall Street’s golden boy, Derek Ashford.
Inside the crowded, wood-paneled federal courtroom, the air was cold and dead silent.
Derek Ashford sat at the defense table, wearing an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit over a plain white shirt. His manicured hair was gone, shaved short under federal prison regulations. His face was hollow, dark circles under his eyes, looking ten years older than the handsome billionaire who had walked the red carpet at the Pierre Hotel.
Beside him sat a team of public defenders. Harrison Vance and his high-priced corporate law firm had abandoned Derek two months prior, after Vance himself was indicted for aiding and abetting tax evasion.
At the prosecution table sat Lead Prosecutor Sarah Jenkins, surrounded by stacks of black legal binders containing over ten thousand pages of financial evidence.
And sitting in the front row of the gallery, surrounded by private security, was Victoria.
She looked radiant. Her skin was warm, her eyes clear and bright. In her arms, wrapped in a soft white wool blanket, was three-month-old Charlotte—a healthy, beautiful baby girl with bright brown eyes and a small tuft of soft blonde hair.
"All rise," the bailiff's voice echoed through the courtroom.
Judge Arthur Miller, a formidable federal judge known for his zero-tolerance policy toward white-collar crime, took his seat on the high bench.
"We are here for final sentencing in the matter of United States v. Derek Ashford," Judge Miller stated, adjusting his glasses and looking down at the defense table.
"Mr. Ashford," Judge Miller spoke, his voice heavy and echoing. "Three weeks ago, a jury of your peers found you guilty on all twenty-four federal counts, including grand securities fraud, racketeering, and felony assault resulting in severe bodily harm."
Derek stared at the wooden table, his shoulders slumped, his fingers twitching nervously.
"Before I pronounce sentence," Judge Miller continued, "the court will hear a victim impact statement."
Victoria stood up from the gallery. She handed baby Charlotte to her father, smoothed her black tailored jacket, and walked calmly toward the podium in the center of the courtroom.
She adjusted the microphone. The entire room held its collective breath.
Victoria looked directly at Derek. For the first time in four months, Derek turned his head and looked at her.
"Four months ago," Victoria began, her voice strong, clear, and ringing with absolute confidence, "Derek Ashford grabbed my throat and told me that he owned me. He believed that his billions made him untouchable. He believed that my life, my voice, and my child were simply assets he could manipulate and control."
She paused, looking around the courtroom at the jury box and the gallery.
"For three years, I lived in the dark," she continued softly. "I believed his lies. I believed that if I complied, if I stayed quiet, if I wore the dresses he picked and smiled for the cameras, he would leave me whole. But cruelty like his can never be satisfied. It only grows."
She turned her gaze back to Derek, her eyes cold and unwavering.
"You tried to take my life, Derek. You tried to steal my daughter before she took her first breath. But you failed. Today, I am standing here whole, free, and standing on the truth. You don't own me. You never did."
Tears trickled down Derek’s hollow cheeks, but Victoria didn't feel a shred of pity. She turned away from him and walked back to her seat beside her father.
Judge Miller cleared his throat, his face stern as iron.
"Derek Ashford," Judge Miller declared, slamming his gavel onto the wooden block. "For your systematic destruction of public trust, your ruthless financial crimes, and your horrific violence against your pregnant wife... I sentence you to thirty-five years in federal penitentiary, without the possibility of parole."
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The courtroom erupted into wild gasps and applause from the gallery.
Derek collapsed forward onto the defense table, burying his face in his cuffed hands, weeping hysterically as federal marshals grabbed his arms to haul him away to his cell.
