Chapter 13 - Facing the Courtroom
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Two months later, the preliminary hearing for State of Illinois v. Vanessa Vance began.
I wore a sharp dark suit, my hair pulled back neatly, sitting alongside Detective Morales in the front row of the courtroom.
Vanessa entered through the side door wearing a orange county jail jumpsuit, her hands restrained by a waist chain. She looked thin, pale, and entirely stripped of her former glamour.
My mother sat three rows behind her, dressed in black, crying softly into a tissue. My father sat beside my mother, staring blankly at the floor.
Vanessa’s defense attorney stood up, clearing his throat.
"Your Honor," the lawyer argued aggressively, "this was a tragic domestic accident. My client was preparing a hot meal for her family. The child ran into the kitchen unexpectedly, bumped into my client, and the pan slipped from her hand. It was negligence at worst, not felony abuse!"
I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
The prosecutor stood up calmly, pressing a button on his laptop.
"Your Honor," the prosecutor countered, "we present into evidence the forensic trajectory report compiled by the state police. The physical evidence proves the cast-iron skillet was thrown with significant forward force from a distance of six feet."
The prosecutor clicked to the next slide on the courtroom monitor.
"Furthermore, we submit the text messages sent by the defendant’s mother, Linda Miller, minutes prior to the attack, explicitly instructing the defendant to 'handle' the victim."
Vanessa lowered her head, sobbing quietly as her lawyer tried to whisper comfort to her.
I looked at my mother in the gallery. For a brief second, our eyes met across the courtroom.
May you like
My mother gave me a look of desperate pleading,Mouthing the words: Please, Rachel.
I turned my head away and looked straight at the judge. I felt no pity. I felt no guilt.
