Chapter 9 - The Criminal Arraignment
Forty-eight hours after the baby shower, the steps of the New York State Supreme Court in Lower Manhattan were overrun by hundreds of journalists, photographers, and television broadcast vans.
The sun was blindingly bright, reflecting off the cold granite steps.
When the police transport van pulled up to the curb, the barricades groaned under the weight of the shouting crowd.
The back doors opened, and two armed court officers escorted Adrian Vale down the metal steps.
He looked unrecognizable.
His expensive tailored suit had been replaced by a wrinkled, orange Department of Corrections jumpsuit. His nose was swollen, bruised a dark, grotesque purple, and covered by a white plastic splint held in place by medical tape. His hands were cuffed in front of him, connected by a heavy chain to his waist. His head was bowed, but the flashbulbs illuminated every tear of shame and terror running down his cheeks.
Behind him came Victor Vale, wearing an ill-fitting gray suit, his shoulders hunched, flanked by a court-appointed public defense attorney after his private legal team resigned en masse over unpaid retainers.
“Adrian! Did you know your wife was an Ashford?”
“Victor! Are the federal fraud charges connected to the Russian shell companies?”
“Adrian! How do you plead to the assault charges?”
Neither man answered. They were pushed up the granite steps, their chains clinking rhythmically against the stone.
Inside Courtroom 302, the atmosphere was as hushed and somber as a cathedral.
Judge Arthur Vance—Carter Vance’s younger brother and one of the most feared jurists on the appellate bench—sat high above the room, his eyes scanning the court papers with icy efficiency.
“Case number 2024-CR-8902,” the bailiff announced. “The People of the State of New York versus Adrian Vale. Charges: Aggravated assault, assault in the second degree on a pregnant person, witness intimidation, and reckless endangerment.”
Adrian stood at the defense table, his knees knocking together so violently that the chain around his waist rattled against the wood.
“How does the defendant plead?” Judge Vance asked.
Adrian’s public defender cleared his throat. “Your Honor, my client enters a plea of not guilty, and we request bail be set in a reasonable amount. Mr. Vale has deep ties to the community—”
“The defendant’s ties to the community consist of four defaulted properties and thirty-six million dollars in unpaid municipal liens,” interrupted District Attorney Sarah Lin, rising from the prosecution table. “Furthermore, Your Honor, we have submitted into evidence high-resolution video capturing the defendant delivering a targeted blow to the victim’s pregnant abdomen, followed by an explicit verbal threat to her life.”
The District Attorney turned slightly, gesturing toward the front row of the gallery.
The entire courtroom turned to look.
I was sitting in the front row.
I wore a simple, elegant ivory wool coat draped over my shoulders, my back straight, my hands folded calmly over my lap. Beside me sat Naomi, holding a leather briefcase, and Dr. Elizabeth Cole, ready to testify to the severity of the trauma Clara had survived.
Adrian saw me. His swollen, bloodshot eyes widened with a desperate, animal pleading.
“Mara,” he mouthed across the mahogany divider. “Please.”
I did not blink. I did not shift my weight. I looked at him with the absolute neutrality of a judge reading a weather report. There was no hatred left in me; hatred requires emotional investment, and Adrian Vale was simply a bad balance sheet that had finally been audited and cleared from my ledger.
Judge Vance did not look up from his desk.
“Bail is denied,” the judge declared, his gavel descending with a single, thunderous *crack*. “The defendant is remanded into custody at Rikers Island pending trial. Next case.”
Adrian screamed. It was a high, broken, undignified sound as two court officers grabbed him by the upper arms and dragged him backward toward the holding cells.
“Mara!” he shrieked, his shoes scraping against the wood floor. “Mara, I love you! Think of our daughter! Clara needs a father! Mara!”
The heavy iron door slammed shut, cutting off his screams like a guillotine.
Victor Vale remained at the table, his head buried in his hands, trembling silently as the marshals stepped forward to serve him with the federal indictment for securities fraud.
I stood up slowly, supported by Naomi’s arm, and smoothed the fabric of my ivory coat.
“Are you ready?” Naomi asked softly.
May you like
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go home. Clara is waiting.”
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