Chapter 89 - The Pre-Dawn Arraignment
At 5:15 AM, the heavy oak doors of Courtroom 3B swung open with a hollow groan.
The room was freezing. The central heating had not yet been turned on, and the tall, arched windows showed only the relentless, swirling white sheets of the blizzard pressing against the leaded panes. A solitary green desk lamp illuminated the bench, where Judge Horace Sterling sat reviewing a stack of preliminary motions.
Standing before the bench were three men in tailored wool overcoats—Victoria’s high-priced defense attorneys, flown in from Chicago on the last private jet before the storm closed the airstrip. They held leather briefcases and spoke in low, confident murmurs, completely unaware of what had transpired on Ghost Mountain three hours prior.
"Your Honor," the lead attorney, a silver-haired man named Harrington, was saying smoothly. "We are requesting an immediate summary dismissal of the plaintiff's counter-claim, along with an order for immediate restitution regarding the deliberate, malicious destruction of my client's two-thousand-dollar designer handbag. The plaintiff has failed to produce the court-ordered evidence, has failed to appear for the deposition, and is currently subject to a county bench warrant for flight."
Judge Sterling sighed, rubbing his tired eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. "The court recognizes the unusual nature of this hearing, counselor. However, given the severe weather and the bizarre reports of seismic disturbances on the northern ridge, I am inclined to grant a twenty-four-hour stay—"
"The plaintiff is present, Your Honor."
My voice cut through the cavernous courtroom like a razor.
Harrington stopped mid-sentence and spun around. The two other attorneys turned sharply, their expressions morphing from smug confidence to utter shock.
I walked down the central aisle between the polished mahogany pews, my heavy boots thudding against the carpeted floor. My coat was caked with dried mud and river silt, my hair wild from the blizzard wind. Behind me walked the tactical commander, flanked by two armed federal marshals who had met us at the courthouse perimeter.
And between them, slumped in handcuffs, her expensive cashmere rags reeking of sulfur and drainage water, was Victoria Vance.
"What is the meaning of this?" Harrington sputtered, stepping toward the bar. "Your Honor! This woman is under an active county arrest warrant! Officer, arrest her immediately!"
The federal marshal stepped forward, slapping a heavy, sealed folder onto the clerk’s table. "Kane County warrants are superseded as of 0300 hours by order of the United States District Court. Step back, counselor, or you will be placed in federal custody for obstruction of an ongoing treason investigation."
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Judge Sterling’s gavel remained motionless on his blotter. His eyes were wide, fixed not on the federal marshals or on Victoria, but on the unburned leather bag resting in my hands.
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