Chapter 9
The conference room on the thirty-second floor of the Vance Tower was a monument to corporate power and polished mahogany. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the downtown skyline, making the city below look like an intricate architectural model. Clara sat at the far end of a massive glass conference table, wearing a simple navy blazer over a clean white blouse. Across from her sat Julian’s lead defense attorney, a silver-haired shark named Marcus Vance—no relation to Victoria’s family—who wore an expensive charcoal suit and carried an aura of aggressive condescension.
Victoria and her father sat near the windows, observing the proceedings with silent, watchful expressions. Chief Security Officer Miller was seated next to Clara as an expert technical witness, his laptop open to display the raw, uncompressed video files from the St. Jude Grand Ballroom.
“Let the record show,” Marcus Vance began, his voice dripping with oily sarcasm, “that the witness, Ms. Clara Hayes, was previously employed within the hospitality sector and possesses financial motives that could compromise her objectivity regarding my client, Mr. Julian Sterling.”
Clara did not flinch. She leaned slightly forward, resting her forearms on the glass tabletop. Her bruised cheek was now mostly concealed by a careful application of mineral foundation, but her eyes carried an unmistakable steel. “Mr. Vance, if you’re implying that I had any prior knowledge of your client’s intention to steal his mother’s heirloom brooch, you’re insulting both my intelligence and the high-definition camera mounted directly above the gift table.”
“Ms. Hayes, please confine your answers to direct responses,” Marcus snapped, adjusting his gold-rimmed reading glasses. “Let’s direct our attention to Exhibit A: the security recording from four-eighteen PM on Saturday afternoon. My client maintains that he approached the gift table not to steal the brooch, but to secure it from a precarious position where it was in danger of falling off the edge.”
Miller sighed heavily, tapping a key on his laptop to maximize the video feed on the large wall-mounted monitor. “Counselor, let’s look at the spatial telemetry data,” Miller interjected in his gravelly, authoritative tone. “At four-eighteen PM, the velvet box was resting securely in the center of the damask-covered table, four feet away from any edge. Mr. Sterling approached with rapid strides, looked around twice to ensure the aisle was clear, opened the box, extracted the brooch, placed it in his interior breast pocket, and kicked the empty box underneath a display pedestal where a six-year-old child was playing with wooden blocks.”
The high-definition monitor played the sequence in slow motion, frame by crystal-clear frame. Julian’s furtive glances, his calculated movements, and his deliberate concealment of the evidence were laid bare for everyone in the room to witness without a shred of ambiguity.
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Marcus Vance cleared his throat, momentarily silenced by the irrefutable digital evidence. He shuffled his papers frantically, searching for another angle of attack. “Be that as it may, the defense contends that the subsequent physical confrontation between Mr. Sterling and Ms. Hayes was escalated entirely by Ms. Hayes’s aggressive verbal provocation.”
“Your client struck a kneeling mother in the face with a heavy signet ring while she was comforting a terrified child,” Victoria interjected, her voice cutting through the conference room like ice. She stood up from her chair, walking toward the head of the table with absolute poise. “No amount of legal spin will alter the fact that Julian is a thief and an abuser. The deposition is over, Mr. Vance. Tell your client we will see him in criminal court on Monday morning.”
