Chapter 7 - The Reckoning of Agnes
Two weeks later, the preliminary hearing for Agnes Holden began in the New York State Supreme Court.
The courtroom was packed with society onlookers, eager to see the fall of the proud, aristocratic matriarch who had spent decades looking down her nose at everyone else. Agnes sat at the defense table, wearing a simple grey linen suit, her face pale, her hair uncharacteristically messy. She looked older, smaller, and entirely stripped of the golden jewelry that had once defined her.
I sat in the front row of the gallery, flanked by Evelyn and two security guards. I wanted Agnes to look at me every time the prosecutor spoke.
The district attorney, a sharp woman named Karen Cole, laid out the evidence with devastating precision. She presented the physical canisters of herbal tea retrieved from my mansion, the chemical analysis showing toxic levels of ergotamine, and the testimony of the private nurse Agnes had hired—who had admitted, under pressure, that Agnes had instructed her to ignore any signs of early labor until it was "too late to stop the process."
"Mrs. Holden didn't want a grandchild," Karen Cole told the jury. "She wanted an inheritance. She wanted to ensure that Rebecca Moore did not survive the delivery, leaving her son, Mark Holden, as the sole next of kin to a multi-billion-dollar estate."
As the nurse testified, detailing the cold, calculated instructions Agnes had given her in the kitchen of my own home, Agnes’s hands began to shake. She looked back at me, her eyes filled with a desperate, burning hatred.
She stood up suddenly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"She’s lying!" Agnes shrieked, pointing her finger at me. "She’s the one who wanted this! She’s cold! She didn't want those babies! She wanted to use them to control my son! She’s a monster! A Moore monster!"
"Mrs. Holden, sit down!" the judge boomed, bringing his gavel down. "One more outburst and I will have you removed and held in contempt!"
Two bailiffs stepped forward, pushing Agnes back into her seat. She collapsed, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, bitter tears.
Beside her, Julian Sterling looked down at his legal pad, his expression one of pure, professional defeat. He knew there was no defense. The evidence was ironclad, the confession from Claire was devastating, and his own brother’s company had abandoned them.
As we walked out of the courtroom during the recess, Julian Sterling stepped into my path.
"Ms. Moore," Sterling said, his voice low and respectful. "My client is prepared to plead guilty to all charges in exchange for a recommended sentence of five years. She’s an old woman, Ms. Moore. She won't survive a full term in a maximum-security facility."
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I looked at him, then at Agnes, who was being led back to the holding cells in handcuffs.
"She didn't care about my survival, Mr. Sterling," I said, my voice cold and flat. "She didn't care if my babies survived. Tell her she can spend her golden years reflecting on the price of her ambition. We are going to trial."
