Chapter 7 - Margaret’s Lonely Cell
A month later, Margaret Thorne's preliminary hearing took place in the county criminal court. The high-society socialite who once refused to dine in restaurants that didn't have Michelin stars was now prisoner number 84920.
Her expensive platinum blonde dye had grown out into stark, stringy gray roots. Without her designer cosmetics, face creams, and Botox treatments, her face looked gaunt, wrinkled, and bitter.
She was charged with accessory after the fact to capital murder, evidence tampering, insurance fraud, and perjury. Given the overwhelming physical evidence found in her basement and her recorded confession in the prison visitation booth, no judge would grant her bail.
I sat in the front row of the gallery, watching her huddle with her overworked public defender. Her wealthy country club acquaintances had completely abandoned her; not a single person sat on the defense side of the room.
When the judge announced that her trial date was set for the following spring and denied her house-arrest petition, Margaret snapped.
She spun around toward the gallery, her bloodshot eyes locking onto me. "You filthy little girl!" she screamed, thrashing against the bailiffs who immediately grabbed her arms. "You think you’re better than us? My family came over on the Mayflower! You were just a contractor's daughter! You took everything from my boy!"
The bailiffs wrestled her toward the side holding cell as her designer slippers fell off her feet, dragging her heels across the floor.
"Your boy is a murderer, Margaret," I said loud enough for the entire court to hear. "And you raised him to be one."
"Damn you to hell, Rosalind!" she shrieked until the heavy iron door slammed shut, cutting off her voice with a violent mechanical thud.
The courtroom fell silent again. The court reporter simply adjusted her glasses and continued typing.
Outside the courthouse steps, a flock of journalists with microphones rushed toward me. I stood on the granite landing, looking out over the city my father had helped build with his own sweat and integrity.
"Mrs. Sterling, do you have a statement regarding Margaret Thorne's upcoming trial?" a reporter called out.
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"Greed doesn't have pedigree," I told the cameras calmly. "Margaret Thorne thought that a family name could cover the smell of blood and concrete. She was wrong. Justice doesn't care about your family tree."
I walked down the steps into the waiting car, ready to dismantle the empire of lies once and for all.
