Chapter 19 - The Jury's Call
Deliberations began at nine o'clock the following morning.
Instead of waiting inside the suffocating marble halls of the courthouse, Noah drove us out of downtown Columbus. We needed air. We needed space where the air didn't smell of old court records, betrayal, and institutional despair.
We drove north to our five acres. The March morning was crisp and clear, the sun melting the last patches of gray snow from the edges of our pasture. The framing of our new barn stood tall against the pale blue Ohio sky, its pale pine timbers glowing in the morning light like a promise kept.
Matt met us there an hour later. In the backseat of his sedan, strapped safely into a rear-facing infant seat, was baby Leo.
I stood beside the truck, watching Matt gently lift the bundle of soft blue blankets out of the car. Leo was awake, his wide, dark blue eyes gazing curiously up at the swaying tree branches and the expanse of open sky. He had Brooke’s sharp nose, but the rest of his features were all Matt—gentle, unhurried, and peaceful.
"Do you want to hold him?" Matt asked softly, stepping toward me.
My throat tightened. For a fraction of a second, the phantom pain in my upper shoulder flared—a lingering reminder of the baby shower, the shattered glass, and the pink balloons. But when I looked down at the tiny, innocent face nestled in the fleece blanket, all the anger and bitterness evaporated.
"Yes," I whispered.
Matt transferred the baby into my arms. Leo was light as a feather, warm and breathing softly. His tiny, velvet-soft fingers reached out from the blanket, instinctively wrapping around my index finger with surprisingly firm strength.
Noah stepped up behind me, resting his chin against my temple, his large, calloused hand gently stroking the baby’s downy dark hair.
"He doesn't carry their poison, Emily," Noah murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "He’s a brand-new page. Just like you."
A single tear spilled over my lashes, dropping onto the edge of the blanket. "He’s safe now. We’re all safe."
We spent two hours walking the perimeter of the pasture, showing Matt the stakes where Noah was going to build the wraparound porch, and the corner where we were planting an apple orchard come April. For the first time in five months, the conversation wasn't about indictments, forensic blood spatter, or forged signatures. It was about garden soil, cedar shingles, and the nursery paint Noah had picked out.
At 1:45 p.m., Noah’s cell phone buzzed against his pocket.
Noah pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and put it on speaker. "Detective Reynolds?"
"Noah, bring Emily back to Courtroom 5B," Reynolds said, her voice crackling over the rural cell tower. "The jury reached a verdict in less than four hours. The judge is calling everyone back to the chamber."
The drive back to downtown Columbus was silent. Noah held my right hand over the center console the entire way, his grip steady and warm.
When we stepped back into Courtroom 5B, the atmosphere was solemn, heavy with historical finality. Brooke had been brought back into the room, seated under heavy guard, flanked by two armed bailiffs. She had refused to look at Davenport. Her hair was pulled back tightly, her face drained of all color, staring blankly at the carved seal of the Great State of Ohio behind the judge's bench.
Judge Harris entered. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"
The foreperson, an older gentleman who worked as a civil engineer in Westerville, stood up. "We have, Your Honor."
He handed a folded sheet of cream paper to the bailiff, who carried it up to the bench. Judge Harris unfolded it, reviewed the contents without revealing a single trace of emotion, and handed it back to the clerk.
"Defendant will rise and face the jury," the clerk ordered.
Brooke stood up slowly, her chains clinking against the leg of the chair.
"On Count One, Attempted Aggravated Murder with Premeditation, how do you find?"
"Guilty," the foreperson declared firmly.
A soft, sharp exhale broke from Noah’s lips beside me. I closed my eyes, feeling a tremendous, invisible weight that had crushed my rib cage for four years finally shatter into dust.
"On Count Two, Conspiracy to Commit Aggravated Murder, how do you find?"
"Guilty."
"On Count Three, Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon, how do you find?"
"Guilty."
"On Count Four, Insurance Fraud in an amount exceeding one hundred thousand dollars, how do you find?"
"Guilty."
"On Count Five, Tampering with Evidence, how do you find?"
"Guilty."
Five counts. Five guilty verdicts. Not a single vote of dissent.
Davenport slumped into his chair, rubbing his forehead. Brooke did not cry. She did not scream. She stood petrified, as if turned to stone, her eyes wide and blank, staring into the dark abyss of a twenty-five-year mandatory minimum sentence in the Ohio Reformatory for Women in Marysville.
Judge Harris looked down from the bench, her gaze piercing and uncompromising. "Sentencing will take place on April 12. Given the severity of the convictions and the violent nature of the crimes, bail is formally revoked. Defendant will remain remanded to the custody of the Franklin County Sheriff without bond. Court is adjourned."
The gavel struck the block with a resounding *crack*.
As the bailiffs stepped forward to lock the transport chains around Brooke’s waist, she turned her head. Her hollow, feral eyes locked directly onto mine across the wooden railing.
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathed.
Then Brooke leaned forward as far as her chains allowed, her lips curling into a grotesque, twisted sneer.
"You think you won the grand prize, Emily?" she hissed, loud enough for Noah and me to hear. "You think Mom and I were the only ones who wanted you erased? Ask yourself why Arthur was so terrified of that safe on Lane Avenue. Ask yourself who funded his municipal campaign twelve years ago."
The bailiffs jerked her backward by the chain. "Move, inmate!"
May you like
Brooke laughed—a high, manic, echoing cackle that lingered in the courtroom air long after the heavy steel door slammed behind her.
***