Chapter 7 - The Trial of Harold Vance
In March, the state brought Harold Vance to trial. Because of his quadriplegia, he appeared in court via a specialized medical transport bed, surrounded by bailiffs and medical attendants.
He was a withered husk of a man, his skin gray, his eyes sunken. Yet, as the prosecutor presented the wooden board, the rusted darts, the photographs, and the forensic evidence from the cistern, Harold’s gaze remained defiant, glittering with manic righteousness.
When it came time for victim impact statements, I took the stand.
I carried Lily into the courtroom. The judge allowed it for the first five minutes of my testimony.
I walked directly to the prosecution table and turned to face the bed where the monster lay.
“This is Lily,” I said, my voice echoing clearly off the wood-paneled walls of the courtroom. “Look at her, Harold.”
Harold’s lip curled in a feeble sneer. “She bears the rot. It was in Evelyn. It was in Michael. You cannot wash it away.”
“There is no rot here,” I said, holding my daughter up so every member of the jury could see her bright, smiling face. “These marks are not a target for your darts. They are marks of life. You spent forty years trying to kill what you couldn't understand, hiding in dark rooms with sharp things, terrified of a phantom you invented in your own sick mind.”
I leaned in slightly, meeting his cold, dying eyes. “You lost, Harold. Your wife has been laid to rest with honor. Your son Michael is walking in the sunlight, tending flowers. Daniel is learning the truth. And Lily will grow up knowing that her mother smashed your world with a chair, and that you will die alone, forgotten, in a cage.”
Harold opened his mouth, trying to spit out another curse, but all that came was a weak, wheezing gasp.
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The jury deliberated for less than ninety minutes. The verdict was guilty on all counts. Harold Vance was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole, remanded to a maximum-security prison medical unit where he would spend the remainder of his days staring at the ceiling tiles.
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