Chapter 8 - The Courtroom Cleansing
The county courthouse was a grand, neo-classical building with marble columns and high, vaulted ceilings that made every whisper sound like a sermon.
At 2:00 p.m. on Tuesday, the gallery of Courtroom 3B was packed with local journalists, representatives from the city construction union, and several board members from Piedmont Holdings who had returned to see the final collapse of the Vance family.
Derek and Marlene sat at the defense table, wearing orange county jail jumpsuits.
Without his tailored suits or his styled hair, Derek looked smaller, his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the mahogany table. Marlene looked ancient, her skin pale and dry under the harsh fluorescent lights, her hands twitching as she stared at the judge’s bench.
Richard Vance sat beside them, his forehead wetter than ever, his hands shaking as he sorted through his sparse folders.
Judge Margaret Vance—no relation to the defense—was a stern, sharp-eyed woman in her sixties who had a reputation for showing no mercy to corporate white-collar criminals.
“We’ve reviewed the emergency motion to lift the asset freeze, Mr. Vance,” Judge Vance said, her voice echoing through the silent room. “And we’ve also reviewed the supplemental filings from the district attorney’s office, including the audio recordings of your client’s recent telephone communications with the plaintiff.”
Richard stood up, his voice cracking. “Your Honor, my client was under extreme emotional distress. The recordings were taken without proper administrative context—”
“Mr. Vance, sit down,” Judge Vance said, her voice dropping into a register that made the entire courtroom go dead silent. “Your client was recorded actively extorting the plaintiff, threatening to damage her late father’s reputation using fabricated records, while actively attempting to bypass a federal asset freeze.”
She looked down at Derek and Marlene.
“The court finds overwhelming evidence of systematic financial abuse, grand larceny, forgery, and domestic violence,” the judge continued. “The temporary asset freeze is hereby made permanent pending the resolution of the criminal charges. Furthermore, the court orders the immediate transfer of all disputed properties, including the New Jersey strip mall and the Carter Construction voting shares, back to the sole custody of Laura Carter.”
A collective murmur went through the gallery.
Marlene let out a low, choking gasp, her head falling into her hands as the reality of her ruin settled over her.
I stood up from the plaintiff’s table, my hand resting on Elena’s shoulder.
I looked at Derek. He slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting mine across the courtroom. There was no rage left in him—only the empty, hollow stare of a man who had realized that his victim was the one who had written the end of his story.
“The court is adjourned,” Judge Vance said, her gavel striking the wooden block with a sharp, final crack.
As the bailiffs stepped forward to escort Derek and Marlene back to the holding cells, I walked out of the courtroom, my heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor.
The reporters rushed toward me at the double doors, their microphones extended, their cameras flashing in a dizzying display.
“Miss Carter! Are you going to keep the harbor project?”
“Miss Carter! What is the future of Carter Construction?”
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I stopped at the top of the stone steps, the bright afternoon sun warming my face.
“Carter Construction is going back to work,” I said, my voice clear, steady, and carrying across the plaza. “My father built this company on honesty, quality, and community. Starting tomorrow, we are going to rebuild the harbor. And we are going to do it right.”
