Chapter 6 - The Trial of Isabella Vance
Two months later.
The Cook County Criminal Courthouse was packed to capacity. Representatives from every major news network in the state were squeezed into the gallery benches, their cameras flashing through the reinforced glass partition of the courtroom.
I sat in the front row of the prosecution bench, eight and a half months pregnant, my hand resting comfortably in Marcus’s warm grip.
Across the aisle sat Isabella Vance.
She no longer looked like the polished, glamorous socialite who had dominated Chicago's corporate galas. She wore an oversized orange prison jumpsuit, her dark hair limp and unwashed, her hands bound in heavy iron handcuffs attached to a leather waist belt. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow, fixed entirely on the polished floor.
Judge Margaret Vance—no relation to the defendant—struck her gavel three times, her sharp voice echoing through the courtroom.
"This court is now in session," Judge Vance declared. "In the matter of the State of Illinois versus Isabella Vance, regarding charges of attempted murder, aggravated battery, and grand embezzlement."
The prosecutor, a fierce woman named Helen Vance, stood up and walked toward the jury box.
"Members of the jury," Helen began, holding up a small black micro-SD card. "The defense has spent two months trying to convince you that the events of October 14th were a 'tragic misunderstanding' between two women. They tried to claim that my client was simply trying to assist a falling pregnant woman."
Helen turned and pointed a finger directly at Isabella.
"But technology does not lie," Helen said loudly. "Video footage does not have a bias. And today, you will watch the five minutes of horror that occurred inside Suite 408."
The lights in the courtroom dimmed.
A massive seventy-inch monitor lowered from the ceiling facing the jury box.
For the next ten minutes, the entire courtroom watched in breathless, horrified silence as the raw 4K video played. The audio echoed through the silent room—Isabella’s cold, cruel confession regarding my mother's death, her terrifying threats, the sound of her lunging at me, and the sickening sound of her red heel pressing into my pregnant body while I screamed on the floor.
Several jurors covered their mouths in disgust. Two women in the front row were crying quietly.
When the video ended, the lights came back on.
Isabella’s defense attorney stood up, his face pale, looking at the floor. He didn't even attempt to offer a closing argument. "The defense rests, Your Honor."
The jury deliberated for less than forty-five minutes.
When they returned to the box, the jury foreman—a stern-looking man in his fifties—stood up and read the verdict into the record:
"On count one, attempted murder of an unborn child: GUILTY." "On count two, aggravated battery with a deadly weapon: GUILTY." "On count three, murder in the second degree regarding Eleanor Dawson: GUILTY."
Isabella let out a high-pitched, pathetic shriek, collapsing onto the defense table, sobbing hysterically as the bailiffs grabbed her arms.
Judge Vance struck her gavel, looking down at Isabella with absolute, unyielding contempt.
"Isabella Vance," Judge Vance declared, "for your horrific, calculated, and unrepentant acts of violence, I sentence you to life imprisonment at the Dwight Correctional Center without the possibility of parole."
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As the guards dragged the screaming, sobbing woman through the side door toward her permanent cage, Marcus turned to me. He pulled me into his arms, kissing my forehead, his tears wetting my cheeks.
"It's over, Khloe," he whispered against my hair. "Your mother has justice. Our baby is safe. It's finally over."
