Chapter 5 - The Trial of Kendall Vance
Six months later.
The courtroom in the Salem Superior Court was packed to capacity. Local news vans lined the street outside, eager for the verdict in Commonwealth v. Kendall Vance.
I walked into the courtroom wearing a sharp charcoal-grey business suit, my hair styled professionally, the faint silver scar on my cheek barely visible beneath a light layer of mineral foundation.
Sitting at the defense table was Kendall.
She looked a shadow of her former self. Her bleached blonde hair was washed out, her designer wedding dress replaced by an orange inmate jumpsuit, her face sallow and drawn from months behind bars. Beside her sat a public defender who looked entirely exhausted by her endless stream of whispered complaints.
In the back row sat my mother, alone, frail, and wearing a worn coat that looked like it had seen better days. Her house in Gloucester had been auctioned off three months prior to satisfy the merchant cash advance debt, and she was currently living in a cramped, damp basement apartment on the outskirts of town.
When the bailiff announced the judge’s entry, everyone stood.
Judge Arthur Henderson—a stern, no-nonsense jurist with thirty years on the bench—scanned the courtroom before looking down at the jury foreman.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Henderson asked.
“We have, Your Honor,” the foreman replied, handing a white envelope to the bailiff.
The bailiff delivered it to the judge, who opened it, read the contents silently, and then looked directly at Kendall.
“On the charge of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon resulting in severe bodily injury,” Judge Henderson read clearly, “how do you find the defendant?”
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
“On the charge of reckless endangerment,” the judge continued.
“Guilty.”
A collective gasp rippled through the courtroom gallery.
Kendall buried her face in her cuffed hands, letting out a sharp, pathetic sob. “No... no, please! It was a joke! It was just a wedding prank!”
Judge Henderson banged his gavel once—a sharp, deafening crack that silenced the room instantly.
“Ms. Vance,” the judge said, his voice dropping into a cold, judicial register. “You did not play a prank. You committed a calculated, violent act of chemical assault against your own sister out of petty vanity and greed. In this commonwealth, we do not tolerate violence disguised as humor.”
He paused, fixing her with a glare of pure disdain.
“I sentence you to seven years in the state correctional facility at Framingham, with zero eligibility for parole for the first five years.”
The gavel fell a second time.
As the bailiff grabbed Kendall by the shoulders and hoisted her out of her chair, she screamed my name across the courtroom, thrashing wildly as she was dragged toward the rear exit.
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“Clara! Clara, help me! Don’t let them do this! We’re sisters!”
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I sat straight in my chair, watching her vanish through the heavy oak doors, knowing that the nightmare she had engineered was finally, legally, over.
