Chapter 7 - The Trial of the Poisoner
Six months later.
The heavy mahogany doors of the Superior Courthouse swung open, admitting a packed gallery of journalists, legal teams, and curious onlookers.
I walked into Courtroom 4B under my own power. I didn't need a wheelchair. I didn't need a cane. A long, thin white surgical scar ran from my ankle up to my knee—a permanent mark of what I had survived, but I wore it like armor beneath my sharp gray suit.
Beside me walked my lead civil attorney, Sarah Jenkins, and Detective Miller.
Sitting at the defense table, wearing an orange state correctional jumpsuit and heavy wrist restraints, was Tristan Vance.
His right eye was permanently scarred and milky white from the chemical burns, and his polished, arrogant posture was completely gone. He looked thin, gaunt, and hollowed out by six months in a maximum-security remand facility.
The trial had lasted two brutal weeks.
The prosecution had laid out an unshakeable mountain of evidence: the path lab reports proving the synthetic strain of MRSA mixed with DMSO, the $1.5 million insurance policy taken out in secret, the wire transfer ledgers proving his massive embezzlement at Apex Capital, and the DNA evidence recovered from the syringe in the ICU bay.
Tristan’s legal team had tried every trick in the book—claiming self-defense, arguing illegal search and seizure, and attempting to portray me as a vengeful spouse who had staged the entire incident to take his assets.
Now, the jury of twelve men and women filed back into the box.
The judge, a formidable woman named Honorable Judge Katherine Vance (no relation), looked over her reading glasses at the jury foreman.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" Judge Vance asked.
"We have, Your Honor," the foreman stood up, holding a white paper document.
The courtroom fell into an absolute, suffocating silence. Tristan stared straight ahead, his hands trembling slightly inside his metal restraints.
"On Count One, Attempted First-Degree Premeditated Murder... we find the defendant, Tristan Vance, GUILTY."
A collective gasp echoed through the gallery.
"On Count Two, Chemical Assault with Intent to Cause Great Bodily Harm... we find the defendant, GUILTY."
"On Count Three, Embezzlement and Financial Fraud exceeding one million dollars... we find the defendant, GUILTY."
"On Count Four, Witness Tampering and Aggravated Assault on Law Enforcement... GUILTY."
I closed my eyes, taking a long, deep breath. Tears silently slipped down my cheeks, but they weren't tears of grief or trauma. They were tears of pure, unadulterated liberation.
Judge Vance slammed her heavy wooden gavel down onto the desk.
"The defendant is remanded back to state custody without bail," Judge Vance declared, her voice cold as steel. "Sentencing will take place on Friday. Mr. Vance, given the horrific nature of your actions, this court intends to impose the maximum allowable penalty under the law: forty-five years without the possibility of parole."
Tristan dropped his head onto the defense table, letting out a dry, pathetic sob as the bailiffs grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet.
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As they marched him toward the holding cell doors, he turned his scarred, milky eye toward me one last time.
I didn't look away. I didn't flinch. I looked straight into his face, holding my head high, until the heavy steel door clicked shut behind him, cutting him out of my life forever.
